


Bad Habits

by Fudgebug



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst and Feels, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Broken Stiles, Children of Divorce, Crush to friends, Derek Feels, Derek Wears Glasses, Drama, Drinking problems, Drugs, Experienced Stiles Stilinski, Explicit Sexual Content, First Crush, First Love, Frottage, Hale Family Feels, I'm just tagging the hell out of this!, Jealous Derek, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Nerd Derek, Oral Sex, POV Derek, Panic Attack, Pining Derek, Power Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Rich Stiles Stilinski, Rough Sex, Slight Destructive Relationship, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski is a Tease, Stiles is Not a Virgin, Tutor Derek, high school parties, i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-21 00:42:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 108,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2448989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fudgebug/pseuds/Fudgebug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Mmmmh pretty.“ Stiles purrs in a way that makes a wild fire torch the planes of his skin.<br/>He knows Stiles is drunk and that the boy would probably stroke a pineapple and compliment its attractiveness, but Derek can’t help the way his heart starts to be a huge backstabbing dick, thundering uncontrollably against his chest.<br/>It’s painful, because Derek knows it isn’t real. </p><p>A story about goody-two-shoes Derek crushing on a Polish Prince Charming with a drinking habit - also the universe keeps on shoving astral poop into his face. It's utterly spectacular.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gold Stars & The Poop Of The Cosmos

**Author's Note:**

> So baby Derek's in his nerdy, bespectacled, hermit high school phase. He's sort of an awkward kiddo (his family's alive so there's a little less "brooding" and a whole lot of "uncomfortable") and he's going through his hormonal existential teen crisis (before growing up and realizing all the magical things he can make people do with that beautiful face of his!!!).
> 
> I didn't have a Beta for this, and English is my second language. I apologize if I translated some things wrong and if my punctuation is confusing. I have tried to fix it as much as possible, but I probably missed a few mistakes.
> 
> Anywho, have a great day!

Polished gold stars don’t do well with trouble. It’s like trying to fuse those gooey blobs in lava lamps, two unwilling components constantly warding each other off, no matter how much vigor you throw into the stirring.

A terrible mixture.

Derek knows. He knows it so well. For his whole entire high school career, he has tried his absolute best to stay away from anything or anyone affiliated with Beacon Hills Preparatory Academy. He’s stayed safely in the boundaries of his Public High School life. He's been ignoring the sex, drugs and debauchery that is posh, prepped and primmed teen high society. Derek has been ignoring his ass off.

But there’s a limit to ignoring. Especially when it comes to splattered moles, bourbon eyes and bed head hair.

And that limit is Stiles Stilinski.

 

♦︎

 

So there Derek is, standing in the parking lot of Beacon Hills High School, supposedly waiting for Erica but staring at the beautiful, flailing, loud mouthed whirlwind that is Stiles Stilinski. It’s days like these where Derek is incredibly thankful for both the schools sharing the same parking lot. It makes stalking  -  appreciatively admiring said whimsical, chaotic whirlwind so much easier. The kid is all over the place. His Aviators are shoved up into his perfectly presentable, yet disheveled hair, a cigarette limply hanging from his lips as he tries to kick the door of his Lambo shut. Lambo. As in Lamborghini. As in Derek tends to have a hard time fairly dividing his heated attention between two beautiful things. It's usually a problem. Not today, though.

Stiles' slender arms are balancing stacks of books and loose paper, a few stray notes flinging themselves into the air, dancing with the howling November wind. His wobbly stance almost seems like he’s going to slam his face into the ground. He manages not to, though. The guy has a knack for looking like his hazardous ways will end in a fucking apocalypse, but there’s a system to the pandemonium. There’s a system to Stiles.

Derek’s eyes roam over the boy, memorizing every twitch, every flick of his muscles, every quirk and blip of his existence.

It’s infatuation. Derek knows it is - and he seriously doesn’t want it, doesn’t need it.

He’s graduating in less than a year. He doesn’t need some rich kid to mess up his whole plan, the plan of him graduating at the top of his class. It’s what’s going to get Derek into Harvard Medical School. HMS.

Derek needs Harvard and not some beautiful stranger. He really doesn’t need Stiles. Nope.

"Hale!“ Erica’s shrill voice booms through Derek’s heated thoughts, the leftover shrill ringing in his ears.

"Above your pay grade, buddy. Not talking about the car,” the blonde states, sighing as she comes to a halt, lazily bumping against his shoulder. They both breathe in the scene playing out in front of them. Rich kids are giggling and shrieking at each other, clasping at their shoulders, heaving for air as if they’re having the time of their lives. Each and every one of them look like they fell straight out of a Tommy Hilfiger add and into a pool of glitter, gold, and cavalier. Derek doesn’t know how hair could be that shiny. It’s not natural.

Derek huffs when he sees a dark haired boy fling his arm around Stiles’ neck - Stiles’ beautiful long neck. Steve or Scott. He doesn’t remember what Isaac had told him the guy’s name was. All he knows is that they’re apparently “best friends”. He wishes he could do that, fling his arm around Stiles, tell him every little secret that’s been nibbling at the back of his mind, spend evenings together stuffing pizza into their faces and playing video games until their thumbs start painfully spasming. Derek mentally smacks himself in the face when his thoughts wander to things that could happen after pizza and video games. Dirty things, such as slamming the boy against a wall and ferociously rutting into him until he -

Stop. Right there. Breathe.

Derek abruptly turns away, not trusting his thoughts when he’s merely looking at the guy. As if on queue, the chime of the bell ripples through the cool autumn air.

Thank you, lord.

"Let’s go,” Derek grumbles.

"But Der! He didn’t even eat his granola bar yet!” Erica teases, nudging his bicep and shoving his glasses into place with a perfectly manicured finger.

It’s Stiles’ routine. Every morning he puts a cigarette between his teeth, doesn’t light it, tosses it aside and eats a granola bar. Derek thinks it’s because he wants to quit. It’s as if Stiles is thinking of getting his life on the right track, metaphorically straightening his posture, "growing out of the clawed grasps of the underworld". And there Derek goes, quoting his fourth grade teacher Mrs. Ferlington. The woman who'd preached about cigarette smoke being the farts of the devil. That, and homosexuals. Funny how that turned out.  

Also, the way Stiles eats granola bars should be a freaking religion. The way he sucks, licks, devours and -

Stop. Right there. Breathe.

This really needs to stop. It’s borderline unhealthy and Derek knows it.

  

♦︎

 

It’s five o’clock. Derek has basketball practice, which literally happens to be his favorite time of the week. Especially practice on Fridays. Simply because Derek loves the joy of dribbling a ball across a court and dunking it into a hoop, not because Stiles has lacrosse practice and they both leave school at the exact same time. It’s definitely not because Derek gets to immerse himself into heated appreciation for the boy after he showers. Damp hair and flushed cheeks are definitely not his thing. At all. Derek simply loves basketball practice.

"26!“ A voice booms across the court, practically prying Derek's ear canals wide open.

"Get your head in the game! You’re - "

A flash of white hot pain jolts through the side of Derek’s face, distorting his eyesight into a blurry mass of colors. Getting hit by basketballs is a bitch, a bitch that’s been tormenting him a lot lately.

"What I tell ya! Stop daydreaming kid! We have a match to win next month!“ Coach yells, the bulging vein in between his eyebrows almost bursting under the pressure.

"Got it!“ Derek shouts, rubbing away the soreness at his right temple. Coach is right. He needs to start focusing. Derek is exceptional at the art of focus.

_Harvard, Harvard, Harvard._

Derek lets the word seep into his brain, a never ending loop of the ivy league anthem echoing in his skull. It’s his mantra from now on.

 _Harvard_.

  

♦︎

 

Harvard. The word has literally tattooed itself into Derek’s brain tissue by the time he's finished practice.

He makes his way for the parking lot, his feet shuffling across the gravel in a slight jogging pace. Derek had tried his best to hurry the hell up, just so he doesn’t have to see him. Not today!  

_Harvard, Harvard, Harvard - Stiles._

And there he is, the epitome of Derek's sexual desires, lazily walking towards his Lambo looking like a wet twink dream. His dark damp hair slightly curls at the tips, and there’s a pretty blush splurging across his pale cheeks, complementing those freckles and moles.

"Yo, grumpypants!“

A sudden painful knock against his skull, and Derek is tumbling forward, bracing his impact with outstretched palms as he lands face first into the pavement.

The third time in two hours. It’s another basketball. Derek hates basketballs.

A throaty laugh reverberates through the air. Derek shifts onto his back, staring into the gloomy evening sky. Mutilated animal shapes are hiding the sun behind their veil of grey. The world is a jumble of rotation, as the ache hums through his head.

"Shit, sorry! Thought it was a light tap man.“

The outline of Boyd’s dark features come into view, a shadow looming over his face.

"I’m telling Erica you masturbate to clown fish documentaries,” Derek says gruffly. It's a little too loud.

"You’re an evil little shit.“

Boyd extends his arm and helps Derek heave himself back up. He holds his friend’s shoulder until the world seems to be back to normal and his head doesn’t feel like a throbbing glob of agony. Boyd shoves his glasses into one of Derek’s palms, which he hastily settles onto the bridge of his nose, not daring to look anywhere else but the shoelaces of his worn out sneakers. He really, really hopes Stiles didn’t see any of that. There are a million fantastical scenarios of Derek being noticed by Stiles. Most of those scenarios revolve around Derek saving a kitten from getting hit by a car - definitely not Derek getting smashed in the face by a basketball.

There’s a hushed, fruity giggle. Derek’s head shoots up. Stiles Stilinski is staring right at him, his brown eyes crinkling at the edges, his mouth flexed into a beaming smile. He’s laughing. Derek’s insides start a full fledged riot because Jesus Christ! That’s a nice laugh.

The thing is, he’s laughing at none other than Derek. Fantastic.

Derek has an incredulous dexterity for making a fool of himself. He frantically lowers his gaze and stomps towards Boyd’s truck, trying his best not to stumble over his own feet, which seems to be a surprisingly difficult task at hand.

Derek desperately wishes the universe would stop shitting on him. The astral poop of the cosmos is not as celestial as it sounds.

  

♦︎

 

With a heavy thud, Derek slumps onto his bed head-first, diving into the rumpled up sheets like a human whale. All he really wants more than anything is to sleep, and forget that he face planted in front of a guy he wants, a guy he wants in his bed, preferably right after he’s finished sleeping.

Imaginary priorities.

But because his life is his life, and he doesn’t have the luxury of living in a universe where money grows on trees, and actual good things happen to him, Derek has to go work the night shift at 7 - Eleven. It's a place where the exuberant joys of Friday nights go to die.

"Hey, bud,” a voice says, drifting through his bedroom door.

Derek just digs his head deeper into his pillow, hoping the plush cushion will swallow him whole with just the right amount of enforcement.

"Bud’s not here,” he says, muffled by his current position. Derek will never admit to being a shameless child whenever he’s around Laura - or Cora, or his mom, or grandpa Ted. His family awakens the worst kind of immaturity. They're the key to the usually locked up remnants of his childhood insanity.   

"Uh yeah, he is! He’s a puddle of ecstatic joy because his wonderful sister is going to lend him her car, instead of making him take his bike to work,” she responds. Derek shifts, letting his eyes peer at his sister, reassuring himself that she’s actually serious and not being a little shit, which she truly enjoys impersonating. Especially when it comes to Derek. But all he can see is the honest small smile of his older sister and a snickers bar hovering in the air, the crumpled up wrapper reflecting the light of his desk lamp like a beacon of hope.

"Peace offering for this morning's bitch fight.”

Laura gingerly places the candy onto the rumpled sheets and slowly slides it towards Derek’s face. With a low grumble, he wraps his fingers around it.

"Thanks,” he murmurs.

"And because I’m such an awesome sister, I’m making you leave right now so you’re not late for your shift. Again!”

A foot is shoved against Derek’s side, and with a forceful kick he’s being tossed off of his bed, the hard floor catching his graceless fall.

"I hate you.”

"You love me.”

"Keep thinking that.”

"Keep denying it, Deedee.”

Derek scrambles to reach for a pillow and hurls it at her face, hoping it will choke the laughter right out of her throat.

  

♦︎

 

The only thing worse than older bitchy sisters is the Friday night shift at the 7 - Eleven on the corner of Wilber street and Hilson Avenue. The reason for its abhorrent calling is because it’s a full fledged eight hour shift, dominated by drunk minors and Greenberg. Drunk minors are torture, but Greenberg forces an absolutely new interpretation for the word.

"You’re late. I’m telling Silvia. She’ll probably make you clean the toilets,” Greenberg states the moment Derek sets foot in the hell-hole.

"Fuck you very much,” Derek murmurs, rolling his eyes in a motion that stings the top of his eye sockets. It’s been exactly fifteen seconds and this guy is raining all over Derek’s already drenched parade.

"I heard that.”

Greenberg wiggles one of his sausage fingers into the air, trying his utter best to look threatening. It just makes Derek roll his eyes even harder. This time, right in his “colleague’s” peripheral vision.

Derek grunts, taking his place behind the cash register, and internally preparing his brain for the shitstorm of intoxicated, hungry teenagers and rude hobos that will burst through the doors of this wonderful establishment in two hours tops. Derek hopes that prepping his subconscious with endless scrolling on 9gag via Silvia's tablet will take the edge off. But after the first Bad Luck Brian post that Derek can sadly relate to, he shoves the tablet towards Greenberg and starts staring holes into the universe, desperately searching for the answer of his current meaningless existence.

Derek has just finished attending to the last batch of single moms doing some late night shopping when the circus really starts.

Kids high on everything and anything rummage through the chips section, knocking over things that Derek thought were impossible to knock over.

A group of middle aged men with shaved heads and tattoos (frankly, they remind Derek of distorted versions of the Dark Mark) buy an immense amount of six-packs containing Miller Light, bluntly expecting Derek to haul the packs onto the back of their Harleys. Actual Harley Davidsons.

Four girls, who probably snuck out of the house during a ‘sleepover’, try to convince Derek to sell them about 5 six-packs with the ID of some relative who's a dude. It’s ridiculous how they think he won’t notice that the goatee on one of the girls’ chin is actually just magic marker. Derek would actually appreciate the genuine hilarity of it all if he weren't far too tired to let the bubble of laughter overtrump the silence accompanying his gloomy death glare.

A bunch of incredibly good looking human beings tumble through the door an hour later. They buy most of the crappy wine they sell with incredibly well-made fake ID’s. Prep school kids. Derek doesn’t even dare say a word. Being threatened with "I’ll make my daddy fire you” is incredibly serious when it comes to kids with perfect hair and filthy rich parents. Derek needs this job, so he plasters on the most fake smile that his constricted facial muscles are capable of and offers his half-assed assistance. He doesn’t even flinch when one of the girls smacks his ass, settling with only giving her the stinkiest of all stinkeyes.

That’s pretty much how the rest of the night goes. Derek listens to Greenberg’s complaints about everything that has anything to do with earth, vigorously mops up some weird green goo in the chips isle, rearranges the snack station, eats his snickers, politely shows a man out who had wanted to sleep next to the freezers, checks 9gag, checks 9gag again, falls asleep for two minutes, memorizes the meaning of the word of the day on the mini tablet.

 _Hebdomadal_.

Derek is about to recollect the origin of the word, when the chime of the bell above the door rips him away from the burning light of the display. The sound wrenches through the comfortable silence that has finally settled between Greenberg and him. Fantastic.

"This one’s yours,” the other employee mumbles around a mouthful of soggy sandwich before scrambling into the office next to the toilet. Dick.

A boy stumbles through the glass door, clinging to the handle as if it’s the only thing keeping him upright. The distinct stench of alcohol wavers in the air. It's mixed with the smell of cigarette smoke, or pot, possibly both, and vomit. Derek is pretty sure that’s the smell of vomit. He sighs, giving his brain some time to construct a polite enough sentence conveying the veiled message: "I'm tired as fuck. So get the hell out, because you're probably not going to be a potential customer. Vomit if I'm right." But before Derek is given the chance to translate the crude words tumbling through his head into acceptable, civil language, the guy whips around to face him.

Derek freezes, because the drunk ass dude is none other than Stiles.

"Shmmm…heey,” he mumbles, clearly completely and utterly out of it. He slumps forward, his hands meeting the floor with his knees following shortly after. Derek watches the way his muscles tense, flex, and twitch as if he's trying to fight for control over his own limbs. He's failing horribly to do so.

"Shmmarkmaaa -"

It’s nothing but a hoarse gibberish as he tumbles to the side, a boneless, limp mess sprawled across the linoleum floor of the store, his body a constant tremor.

"Stiles?”

Derek jumps up so fast the chair he had been sitting on clatters onto the ground. He swivels around the cash register, practically racing towards the boy who’s turned into a puddle of human mush. The smell of intoxication is even stronger when Derek crouches down next to Stiles, a hand hovering over his shoulder, utterly unsure of what to do next. All his body is currently capable of doing is breathing. He breathes, breathes until the smell of hard liquor, sweat, and smoke, has settled into the spaces between his ribs.

"Fuck,” Derek hisses, because fuck!

"Stiles!”

Derek eventually comes to the conclusion that bodily contact will be necessary if he wants to help his crush. He gingerly rests his fingers onto his right shoulder blade, slowly forcing his hand downward, his palm pressing against the quivering bone. It’s like the abnormal heat of his skin is scorching right through the fabric of his jacket, blistering Derek’s flesh.

"Stiles, can you hear me?”

Yeah, Derek, that seems genuinely helpful.

He feels absolutely ridiculous, because never in his life has he felt so helpless. And Derek wants to help him, needs to help him, because it’s Stiles.

"Mom,” the boy groans. He repeats the word. Again, again, and again, until it’s nothing but a broken whisper, a cracked record player stuck on repeat, stumbling over that one spot. It's a never-ending echo.

Derek doesn’t let his mind ponder on the whirlwind of speculations running wild in his head and shifts Stiles onto his back, keeping him stable with the firm pressure of his hand. He's sweating. Derek can feel it, by the way the material is clinging to his skin.

Phone. He needs to find a phone.

"Where’s your phone?”

Derek mentally punches himself because that’s not a question you simply ask a mindless drunk. The probability of not receiving a humanly decipherable answer "is too damn high" - 9gag has the worst moments of bubbling up in his brain. Really.

Stiles looks up and meets his frantic gaze. His hooded eyes are bloodshot. The color of his irises are a dull auburn as he watches Derek through winged lashes. It’s the first time Derek has ever been so near to the boy. He’s even more mesmerizing up close. The pattern of freckles and moles are even more captivating. The slight flush to his cheeks is even ruddier. The bow curve of his lips is even softer. Derek catches himself wanting to lightly brush the pad of his thumb against the flush plump of his lower lip and -

Snap out of it.

Derek clears his throat and repeats the really, really stupid question.

"Where’s your phone? Did you lose it, did you -"

His words are cut off by a childish giggle ringing through the boy’s throat. Crap, if that doesn’t send shivers down Derek’s spine. Stiles points at his crotch.

Again. Stupid question.

"Dick, peeeeniissss,” he slurs. Stiles is shamelessly gesturing towards his nether regions, a place that Derek has only fantasized about during nights of vicious masturbation. Derek’s a hormonal teenager. It has been a constant recurrence, settling on the verge of unhealthy.  

Derek starts patting the side of the the guy’s pants down, hoping he didn’t lose his phone, trying his best to ignore the loud groaning Stiles starts immersing himself into. It’s like he's channeling his inner porn star. It's a fucking loud porn star. Loud and really, really arousing. Derek wants to thank the heavens above when his fingers brush against a rectangular object in the right hand pocket of the denim. With the least amount of bodily contact possible, he pulls the iPhone out - because duh, what else would a rich kid be using - and presses a finger against the home button. He wants to - again - mentally smack himself for his obvious idiocy because this is the 21st century, and everything electronic in the 21st century happens to be password protected. Rightfully so. Right?

Derek’s about to go through another freak out when he notices that the phone is one of the newer models and has this weird fingerprint pattern identification thing going on. Now all Derek needs to know is what finger is saved into the database.

"Alright. What finger do you -"

Derek stops himself right there. The guy is still drunk.

He starts with Stiles’ right hand, which seems to be the logical choice and reaches for his thumb, which also seems to be the logical choice. Derek is about to press the boy’s limp finger onto the home button, when his hand lurches forward and brushes against Derek’s cheek. It’s a sloppy, awkward motion, but it’s there. Stiles’ hand is on Derek’s cheek, caressing it. Sirens start howling against the walls of his cranium, blood is being sucked right out of his brain and into places far, far below.

"Mmmmh pretty.“ Stiles purrs in a way that makes a scorching wild fire torch the planes of his skin.  

He knows Stiles is drunk and that the boy would probably stroke a pineapple and compliment its attractiveness, but Derek can’t help the way his heart starts to be a huge backstabbing dick, stuttering uncontrollably in his chest and beating irregular rhythms against the bones of his ribcage.

It’s painful because Derek knows it isn’t real.

The vibrating buzz of the phone hurls him back into reality, which is looking pretty shitty right now. It’s not the right finger. Great.

Derek tries the other thumb. _Bzz_. Wrong.

Derek tries both his index fingers. _Bzz_. Wrong.

Derek needs to wait five minutes.

Derek can’t try the rest of Stiles’ fingers because they start tugging at Derek’s belt and - huuuuuuuuuuuuuh. The terribly filthy thoughts contaminating his mind are going to send him straight to the pits of hell. Front row, window seat, choo - choo train to Hades.

The fingerprint that eventually unlocks Stiles’ iPhone, ends up belonging to the middle finger on his left hand. Why doesn’t that surprise him?

Derek thumbs through Stiles’ contact list, trying to push away the pain of the slight jab in his abdomen when he stumbles across contacts such as "cute barista guy”, "club X bathroom dude”, "hot pilates chick”. Of course Stiles has a life outside of Derek’s fantasies. It just hurts a little more having physical evidence of the fact that he’s definitely anything but an inexperienced, innocent virgin. Not that Derek is. A virgin, that is. Although, he's not ruling out the obvious lack of sexual experience. Derek had had his first - and only time to date - with some guy from summer camp two years ago. Carl or Kelvin. He was all clammy palms, greasy hair, and clumsy limbs. Derek remembers how he'd smelled like Cheetos. Derek doesn't like Cheetos.

He viciously shakes his head, hoping the rapid movement will hurl the haunting thoughts right of his skull.

Scott.

Derek’s thumb hesitates over the name, black letters contrasting against the painfully white display. Isaac had said something about a Steve or a Scott being Stiles’ best friend. Stiles starts giggling again, carding his flimsy fingers through Derek’s hair, ruffling his locks into a texture that will probably make him look like a porcupine. Derek's going to go with Scott. He can’t handle the copious amounts of confusing feelings that are currently stabbing and jabbing into his heart.

Derek gently wraps a hand around Stiles’ wrists, keeping them as far away from his body as possible. He can’t handle it. Not now. He ignores the way the boy feels so fragile between his fingers, the way his thin wrists fit into one of Derek’s hands so easily.

"Hello?” A sleep disgruntled voice ruffles through the speaker.

"Stiles, what’s up?”

"This isn’t Stiles. I- My name’s Derek I work at the 7 - Eleven on the corner of Wilber street.”

Derek waits, making sure the guy is listening.

"Sti - your friend is pretty much close to being black out drunk. He’s lying on the floor of the store and-”

"Shhh… mmmh - loud,” Stiles slurs, wiggling his body and ripping his wrists out of their confinements. Derek tries his best to hold Stiles’ hands in place, which is surprisingly difficult because the guy is exceptionally strong.

"Can you pick him up? I didn’t know who else to call on the contact list,” he continues, babbling the words out as fast as possible. He needs all this to be over.

"Fuck. I told him not to -"

The rest of the sentence is lost in a muffled groan.

"I’m not in Beacon Hills, visiting relatives over the weekend,” Scott finally replies. He sounds strangled, as if the burden of worry is weighing his words down, double - gravity clinging to each and every letter.

"Are there any other friends I could call?”

"Dude, no. If Stiles is that drunk, it’s probably because he was out with the others.”

"His parents?”

Silence.

"Are you kidding me? No way, man. He doesn’t really - his mom is - look, his dad wouldn’t be able to help. He’s outta town and trust me. You don’t want to call that number. I don’t even think Stiles has it saved onto his phone.”

Another moment of quiet rushes through the speaker. Derek can practically hear the clockwork wheels of their brains setting themselves into motion, slotting into their gear teeth, fueling their thought processes.

"Look, I know this is a huge favor to ask a total stranger - wait. What did you say your name was again?”

"Derek.”

"And you work at 7 - Eleven? Wait you go to Beacon Hills High right?”

"Uh, yes?”

"Wait. You're Derek who works at 7 - Eleven. You're  _Derek_ who works at- uuugh fuck.”

There’s a thud and another non-coherent obscenity Derek doesn’t know what to do with.

"Alright, _Derek_. I’d be so incredibly thankful if you could bring the guy home. Please. If you get fired I will literally get you the job back. One of my friend’s mom is one the best attorneys in Beacon Hills. Dude, better yet, I’ll promise you a new job with a way better pay grade if you could just bring Stiles home. Please.”

It’s the way the guy pleads, almost whines, that makes Derek agree. Stiles probably means a lot to him. Derek understands.

"No. You don’t have to do that. Just - where does he live?”

"He lives on Willow road, house number 36. There’s also a code that you need to punch in at the gate. It’s 627282. The terrace doors are usually open.”

Derek chokes on his own saliva. He tries his best to muffle his bursts of coughs with the back of his hand. Scott is trusting him with taking Stiles into his house. He just gave Derek the code to this guy’s gate, as easy as you tell someone what your favorite meal of the day is. For all anyone knows, Derek could be a serial killer. Highly unlikely and yet statistically possible.

What is up with these rich kids?

Derek scrambles onto his feet, kicking away the slight wobbliness in his knees as best as he possibly can. He rummages through the random objects splayed across the counter, frantically searching for a working pen that won't give up halfway through its purpose.

"What’s the code again?”

"627282,” the disembodied voice repeats. Derek scribbles the number onto the back of his hand, ignoring the thud and the tug coming from below. Stiles’ arms are tightly wrapped around Derek’s legs, the burning warmth of his body shooting up his lower limbs and pooling low and lava hot in his groin.

This boy is literally going to be the death of him.

"Huuh…Shtaying,” he mumbles.

"You know how to take care of a drunk right?”

There’s a distinct shrill tone in Scott’s voice. It sounds like swallowed panic.

"Yeah.”

Derek has dealt with blackout-drunk Cora plenty of times. He’s a walking, talking guide of “How to Manage Human Beings Inhibited by High Levels of Intoxication“.

"Thank you so much, man. Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid, and text me the second you guys are at his house. Jesus, Derek, you don’t know how thankful I am right now,” Scott babbles. Derek is familiar with this kind of desperate worry. It’s the kind that burrows itself into your brain tissue, little maggots that nibble onto every ounce of leftover reassurance.

"Mom, mom, mom,” Stiles whines.

It’s the worry that Derek is feeling as well.

  

♦︎

  

Convincing Greenberg to not tell Silvia about Derek ditching him, and frantically pleading for him to take over the rest of the night shift, is an even trickier job than trying to ward off Stiles’ greedy hands from Derek’s belt - which is driving him all sorts of levels of insane. Eventually, Greenberg agrees but on the condition of Derek scrubbing the toilets for the next two months. Fine. Fucking A-Okay Greenberg.

Stiles is a babbling, teary eyed jumble when Derek eventually manages to drive up to the correct

road. The childish giggling and inappropriate groping has come to a complete stop. Stiles is just a puddle of drunken sadness oozing onto his leather seat. It's so much worse than hearing the word ‘penis’ in seven different accents with seven different facial expressions.

Every single mansion on Willow road looks exactly the same. They're huge, superfluous, and incredulously expensive. Even the trees look like wads of cash, stacked into perfectly trimmed floras of wealth.

The number signs are tiny and squinting to decipher them while trying to ward off Stiles' hands from batting against Derek's face is turning into an increasingly difficult task. Stiles seems to be quite the active crier. The boy is all bashing, erratic limbs, and screeching sobs.

Trying to find the right house is borderline impossible.

Emphasis on ‘borderline’. Derek eventually does manage to drive up to the right mansion.

"Wait here. No moving,” he grumbles. His brain literally doesn't have enough left over strength to form a normal, coherent human sentence.

Stiles looks up at him through giant, bloodshot amber eyes, his hair a dark haloed chaos, his shoulders slouched into the passenger seat. He looks like a lost little puppy, and the sight of him like that is doing things to Derek. He feels like holding the boy tight in his arms until he stops, stops looking so utterly alone. He wouldn’t be, not in Derek’s arms.

"I’ll be right back okay? I just have to open the gate,” Derek manages to coax a softer tone out of his mouth. There’s a small whimper that escapes Stiles’ lips, and Derek is taken aback by the hauntingly heavy feeling of never wanting to leave him alone, not even for the mere time span of a few seconds.  

  

♦︎

  

"Alright. Where’s your room?”

The words echo across the walls of the enormous entry hall, his voice flinging itself into countless directions, veiling the two of them in a fading noise of Derek. It can’t even be called an entry hall. It’s a freaking ball room.

Stiles mumbles something that sounds dangerously close to, "wherever you want it to be”. Derek grunts, not letting himself think twice before heaving Stiles into his arms. Bridal style. He has no idea how someone who looks so slender is capable of being this heavy. Derek tries to ban each and every single thought revolving around how lacrosse has probably turned his muscles all kinds of lean and toned. It feels incredibly inappropriate. This whole entire situation seems thoroughly and incredibly inappropriate. In a way Derek almost feels like he’s taking advantage by merely thinking of this being an inappropriate situation. That’s how Derek’s brain works. Welcome to "Awkward Central” where nothing harmless is safe from being considered uncomfortable.

"Is it upstairs?” He asks, not really expecting an answer. The question is more of a way to diminish the silence that looms over the gigantic mansion like a thick blanket threatening to choke away all of the breathable air. It seems so much colder than outside, which is impossible due to the floor heaters being switched on. Also, it’s currently November.

It’s an unfamiliar feeling, the feeling of being in someone's home and not feeling the ‘home’. Everything about the interior exudes a frigid kind of distance, as if it's not real, as if it's going to slip into non-existence the second Derek blinks.

Derek shifts Stiles in his arms. He watches as the boy curls up into the movement, turning into a tiny ball of tired limbs. He’s close, so utterly close, that Derek can feel the shallow blips of his heartbeat through the heat emanating from his chest. It seems to be the only sound that fills the hollowness of the mansion, that gives it a sense of ‘life’. It's the only hint of it being considered somewhat of a home. It's the sound of their heartbeats thrumming irregular staccatos.

It takes Derek an embarrassingly long time to find a room that comes close to the stereotypical habitat of a teenager. There’s a reason why people call the monuments on Willow road mansions.

A creaky ladder attached to a tiny trapdoor embedded into the polished ceiling leads to a tower bedroom. The room is rather small compared to the others scattered throughout the house, and yet it seems to be the only space that actually looks lived in. It looks like someone actually calls this theirs.

The four walls practically scream Stiles right into Derek’s face.

The windows are slim, stretching from the floor to the ceiling. They're luring in the remnants of street lanterns and moonlight, enabling the dim glow to illuminate the little square shaped space. Not only does the bright red rug go completely against the modern black and white demeanor of the mansion's everything, but pretty much every corner, every inch of Stiles’ room makes Derek think of a rainbow explosion gone wrong. Not in a bad way, though. It steers more into the direction of a harmonious chaos. Derek has no idea how something can be considered a ‘harmonious chaos’, but Stiles' room manages to reach that type of pleasing confusion.

The bedroom walls are covered in vibrant drawings, sketches, pictures ripped out pages of magazines, stickers, and bubblegum wrappers. It’s an endless mural leaking across the walls like a color splash tidal wave. The bed is a patchwork of different sized pillows and blankets, a whirlwind of colors and patterns. Derek snorts when he catches a glimpse of a Batman pillow stuck between Captain America’s shield and marijuana leaves.

The piano resting against one of the mural walls catches Derek’s attention. Unlike everything else in the room, it’s not loaded with junk or random clothing articles. Even though it’s old and tattered, it looks polished and well kept. There’s just one single silver frame standing on the lid, leaning against the wall. A halo of candy wrappers and sketches engulf the picture of a smiling woman. The stranger looks young. Auburn curls are sweeping across the sides of her face. Doe eyes are beaming into the camera. Derek is guessing Stiles and this woman are somehow related. It’s the smile that quirks the slightest bit more to the right than to the left, that really gives it away. She looks happy.

There's a tiny grenade firing off in one of his coronary arteries. It's splattering right under his chest. Derek doesn’t know a single thing about Stiles. All he’s ever known is that his last name is Polish gibberish and that he drives a ridiculously expensive car.

Derek didn’t know Stiles plays the piano, he didn’t know he has an artistic bent or that he owns a telescope.

Who the heck owns a telescope these days?

There are million little facts about Stiles spilling across the four walls of this room, gripping hold of Derek's undivided attention. And it’s weird. The feeling of mentally building things onto the Stiles-structure in his head is weird, because he has to throw away bits and pieces, dismantle a few things, and rearrange. For some reason, Derek hadn’t thought Stiles would be capable of doing some of these things. The boy seems far too jittery to immerse himself into pulling and pushing a pen across a piece of paper for longer than an hour or tinkering his fingers across piano keys. He even gives off the impression of being far too antsy to gaze at the universe through the tiny hole of a telescope.

Derek has never known Stiles. He’s a stranger, an enigma.

Derek is about to gaze upon the whirlwind of sketches scattered across one of the bedroom walls, when Stiles starts shifting in his arms, nuzzling his cheek against his chest. His whole entire innards plummet into a deep, dark vortex forming in the pits of his stomach. It's sucking out every ounce of clarity, leaving nothing but hollow confusion. Derek shouldn’t be holding him this close, shouldn’t be pressing him against his chest even tighter.

It’s not good for him. It’s not healthy.

  

♦︎

 

Derek heaves Stiles into the bathtub, the boy weakly thrashing around with his limbs, repeating a pattern of slurred, “mom, I’m sorry” and “make it stop”.

Derek is terrible, because all he manages to do is pat Stiles on his head. It’s awkward and stiff, but it seems to do the trick. Stiles finally clamps his mouth shut, and it almost feels like he’s gently pressing into Derek’s palm. The silence isn't welcoming the way he'd expected it to be. It's so, so much worse.

He’s a mess. Stiles is a mess. Derek’s whole entire world is crumbling around him, because the Stiles sobbing his heart out in the bathtub isn’t the fantastical Stiles that has been haunting Derek’s brain for the past year. The real Stiles is this. It’s confusing, wrong, and all sorts of messed up.

Derek helps him peel out of his clothing, until Stiles is curled up in a limp ball with nothing but his boxers on. Remnants of reeking fluids are tapered to the material of his shirt and jacket and Derek doesn’t even want to know. Derek doesn’t even want to look at Stiles. It hurts. It hurts far too much. All of this. It's worse than taking care of Cora when she staggers home after a supposed "study night". This isn't funny. Stiles isn't funny. Stiles hadn't been drinking away the boredom, hadn't been drinking for the mere thrill of it. The reason is so much deeper, so much heavier.

A giant lonely submerged submarine is drifting in the depths. It's a colossal carcass of nothing. Derek doesn't know why he's thinking about submarines, but he's thinking about submarines.

He checks the temperature of the water, watching the warm fluid movements of it wash over the creases of his palm. It's easier, more endurable than watching Stiles fall apart just inches away.

He hears it though. He hears the sobbing and the choked, hoarse whispers of words pushing away the silence, warding it off with harmless, wooden sticks. The silence eventually does come back. It retaliates, breaking through the destructible barrier. And it's incredibly loud.

The water seems to eventually heat up to a comfortable temperature, enabling Derek to hook the shower head up above, letting the water pitter patter against Stiles’ pale skin. Derek pointedly looks away, staring at that one tiny hole in his right sock just above his little toe.

Stiles doesn’t stop crying. Derek has no fucking clue how to handle any of it.

When it seems like the stench of intoxication has been thoroughly drained down the pipes, Derek heaves Stiles out of the tub. The boy can hardly stand. He's clutching at Derek’s shoulder, repeatedly jabbing his feet against each other, fighting for whatever balance he has left. It's close to zero.  

Getting Stiles into clean, dry clothes, is a nightmare. Partly because he’s practically terrifyingly naked, and partly because he’s practically terrifyingly naked. It’s times like these where trying to embody the perfect gentleman simply fails. Opening doors for people, always insisting on walking on the side bordering the street - that’s a piece of cake. Having a gloriously naked, beautiful human being clutching at you like they’re holding on for dear life, a situation that only ever happens when you tune into your spank bank database, is a whole different level of how is this my life.  

Because how the hell is this Derek’s life?

And he can’t even be happy about this. He doesn’t even want to consider this being anything close to a joyous occasion, because Stiles is drunk out of his mind, crying like his heart is being etched right out of his chest.

Stiles' crying makes Derek want to cry. Isn’t that just fantastic?

 

♦︎

 

It takes a quarter of an eternity to slip Stiles’ arms through a sweater due to him pretending they’re made out of “boneless noodle pudding”.

It takes a whole entire eternity to pull a dry pair of boxers up Stiles’ legs due to him not wanting to budge. Also due to Derek not trying to think of how Stiles’ genital area is right there. Pointedly staring at the bathroom tiles makes everything a million times more difficult.

When Stiles is finally dry and clean and dangerously close to blacking out against Derek’s shoulder, he carries him towards the bed. Stiles groans when Derek gingerly rolls him onto the mountain of disheveled pillows and blankets. He watches as the bed seems to swallow his slender limbs whole, sucking him into a burrowed hole of warmth. He pulls a blanket over him and tucks the boy in all the way to his chin, just like his mom used to when Derek was a kid.

The moon peeking through the curtains drowns Stiles’ features in a pale glow. He sort of looks beautiful like this. His hair is slightly damp and clinging to his forehead. His flushed lids are shut, clumpy teared lashes sweeping across his cheeks. And his lips - the slightest bit open, as if he’s just about to babble away again. He doesn’t, of course. He just breathes.

Derek catches himself unknowingly moving a hand towards the boy’s cheek. He stops himself.

It's unreal. A jolt of electric snap the fuck out of it screams through his body, and Derek immediately pushes himself back a few steps, creating a very much needed distance.

Vomit bucket? _Check_.

Footing? _Check_.

Aspirin? _Check_.

Water? _Check_.

After countless festive events of handling Cora on Saturday mornings at ungodly hours, Derek has created a mental checklist to aid the intoxicated.

He situates a trashcan as close to Stiles’ head as possible, reaches for a leg and settles the foot onto the floor. Apparently it helps stop the world from turning. Finding aspirin and water isn’t quite as difficult as Derek had thought it would be. Apparently Stiles has an Alka-Seltzer stash in a bathroom cabinet - next to an orange container filled with pills. They remind Derek of tic - tacs, bleached, white, and tiny. He ignores the slight stab in his gut as he quickly slams the mirror cabinet shut, not daring to let his eyes linger on the inscribed words scribbled onto the white sticker of the prescription drug. It’s none of his business. All of this is none of his business.

He places a glass of water and Alka-Seltzer tablets onto his bedside table, hastily scribbling a note onto a pizza napkin he’d found in the mine field called a "desk". Derek hopes his chicken scratch is readable.  

 

**Take the Alka-Seltzer as soon as possible. Call Scott when you can.**

 

**Know your limits.**

 

_Know your limits?!_

 

Derek ferociously scratches that part out, causing to scribble a hole into the napkin, as he practically jabs the pen into the wood of the bedside table. He hesitates. Should he leave his number?

No.

Derek doesn’t want Stiles to know he was here. Derek wants Stiles to keep on living his life, never being aware of his existence. This guy is everything he does not need. Stiles is everything Derek can’t need.

The thing is, the universe just loves to fuck with Deedee.


	2. Dingleberries & Rich Bitch Parties

 "Derek, did you eat my peanut butter?”

"No, grandpa. I don’t eat peanut butter.”

"Everybody eats peanut butter.”

"Apparently not everybody.”

"Then why is it empty?”

"Because everybody eats peanut butter.”

"Apparently not everybody.”

"Yes. Apparently.”

"Derek, did you eat my peanut butter?”

"Grandpa, I don’t eat peanut butter.”

Derek squints at grandpa Ted, the old man holding his heated gaze with the kind of vigor only a Hale would be capable of. He looks a little older than usual. It's the way his facial muscles don't move, don't twitch, don't glitch up his facade of old age. Ted almost has an even better poker face than Derek, and that's saying something.

"I’ll buy you a new jar gramps,” Cora chirps innocently and pats one of Ted’s shoulder blades. The old man whips around, a jolt of energy buzzing through his old bones.

"Peanut butter thief!” he grunts, stabbing his fork into the air. Cora smiles wickedly.

"Pop-tart thief by night, peanut butter thief by day,” she counters, side eyeing Derek.

So that’s where his pop-tarts went.

Derek kicks his heel into her butt, chuckling when she flails forward, causing her to almost smash her head into the wooden deck of the kitchen island.

Cora is about to ferociously retaliate with a blueberry muffin when Talia whirls into the kitchen, a beaming smile on her face.

"Good morning everybody. Derek, what did we say about domestic violence? Cora, put the muffin down!” she orders, laying her hands on Ted’s shoulders and pressing a kiss to his temple. Grandpa Ted's bushy eyebrows look a little more violent than usual.

"Morning, dad.”

"You have raised a peanut butter thief,” he grumbles around a mouthful of dry toast. The man refuses to eat bread with anything else.

"I have raised much more than just a peanut butter thief.”

Talia heads for the kitchen counter, pouring her daily dose of caffeine into one of Laura's pink thermoses. She always makes a big show of which one she'll chose, letting her fingers skim over the different colored surfaces for so long that Derek almost thinks she won't actually choose the thermos with the Hello Kitty sticker on it, but she always does. Talia always chooses the thermos with the Hello Kitty sticker and today is no exception.

His mother smiles contently, once the thermos is filled all the way to rim, the smoke curling into the air and mingling with the warmth of the kitchen. Talia turns towards the others, tugging at the faded material of her scrubs one last time.

"Alright!" she exclaims with a blinding beam on her face.  

Oh, the wonders of morning people. How the hell do they do it?

"Love you, see you guys at dinner and tell Laura it’s her turn to do the laundry!” she shouts, while pecking one too many kisses across the faces of her children, ignoring the way they flinch in protest, their hands already batting away at her flimsy curls.

"Don't forget, okay?" she shouts before racing out the door.

"Bye! We will!" Cora and Derek shout in unison, voices plastered with innocence. A loud bang shudders through the house, signalizing her departure. Derek drops his bagel onto his plate, Cora lowers her muffin.

"Yeah, she raised a hermit caveman who was repeatedly hit by the asshole stick,” she murmurs just loud enough for Derek to hear.

"Says the leader of the retardicorns,” Derek counters, shooting her the stinkeye. Cora snorts and punches him in the bicep as she settles onto the kitchen counter, stuffing the blueberry muffin into her face.

"Slutnugget.”

"Cockjuggling thundercunt.“

"Cumabsorbant waffle stomper.”

"Go suck a disco stick, Der.”

"Shut your cock holster, you spherical dingleberry.”

"You two are aware that I have my hearing aid switched on, right?” Grandpa Ted shoots them a pointed look. He quirks an eyebrow over the rim of his crooked glasses, which are sitting on his crookedly crooked nose. Ted smiles. Cora’s hand whips forward, slapping it against Derek’s cheek.

"Ow! What the -"

"Derek is just such a bad influence on me, grandpa,” Cora states in a theatrical voice, clutching a fist against her chest. Derek shoves his bagel into her open mouth.

"What exactly is a 'spherical dingleberry'?” grandpa Ted asks, looking more than confused. His eyebrows furrow, the scrunched up wrinkles letting the bushy bunches of hair almost meet in the middle of his face.

"Well it’s -"

"Derek, don’t teach grandpa Ted anymore terms from your weird obscenity vocabulary list!”

Laura shuffles into the kitchen, her bunny-eared slippers whooshing over the tiles. She yawns as she heads towards the stool next to Ted.

"Is it edible?” the older man asks pensively, resting his chin onto one of his crinkled palms. Cora holds back a giggle as she starts spasming next to Derek on the kitchen counter. Before Derek has the chance to answer, Laura is already shoving the both of them out of the door.

"You’ll be late!” she shouts.

"Yes, ma’am!” Cora says, muffled by Derek’s bagel in her mouth, a toast in one hand, a pancake in the other. Derek has no idea what went wrong with this one, and by now he's far too afraid to ask.

"Mom says it’s your turn with the laundry,” Derek adds, shuffling into his sneakers, while pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"What? No! I had laundry duty last week.”

"No, you didn’t.”

"Yes, I did. I’d know because I was the one who had laundry duty last week.”

"Are you saying I’m becoming senile?!”

Laura opens her mouth in exasperated shock.

"It’s alright, munchkin! I’ll get you through the basics. It really isn’t that bad,” grandpa Ted shouts, his voice as hoarse as a rusty door hinge. Derek chuckles while he wraps a scarf around his neck, dodging the bunny-eared slipper that hurls past his face into the cool November air.

 

♦︎

 

So, there Derek is, standing in the parking lot of Beacon Hills High School, supposedly waiting for Erica, but his eyes frantically searching for a beautifully flailing, loud mouthed whirlwind.

It doesn’t show up.

Friday night had felt so incredibly surreal, Derek is questioning his sanity. Repeatedly.

What if it was all some bizarre dream? A truly, terrifyingly realistic, horrible, horrible dream.

Derek was in Stiles’ house. Derek was in Stiles’ room. Stiles was drunk, and sad, and at one point _naked_. Derek doesn’t know how to process any of it. It feels like a jumble of misplaced information waiting to be evaluated. It's cursing lower, languidly turning into an uncomfortable knot stuck in the pits of his stomach, a thick blob cemented between his innards. Derek can’t do anything about it. It's just there.

And that isn't the only thing bothering him. For some reason he's genuinely worried. Derek shouldn’t be worried. Derek should be mentally preparing for the quiz Mrs. Buhler is going to hand out in about fifteen minutes, but all his brain manages to do is jumble together a million different scenarios, playing out in a million different ways, resulting in a million different outcomes.

What if Stiles didn’t stay in bed? What if he walked straight out of the house? What if something terrible happened and Derek's going to be at fault?

"‘Sup fuzzy bear.”

"Don’t call me that, Erica.”

"But you are! You look all scary and rugged on the outside, but you have this cute, little, mushy center,” Erica counters, nudging him towards the entrance of the school. Derek doesn’t utter a single word as the blonde pulls him through the crowded hallways, not even once they’re huddled up in a circle against the lockers with Boyd and Isaac. Derek simply stares at the floor as if it holds the answers to _everything_.

It doesn’t, of course. In the end it’s just a floor. A floor that’s being stomped on by thousands of pounding feet each and every day. Derek wonders if being a floor is easier than human existence. Derek could handle being smashed by feet. That would actually be kind of okay.

 

♦︎

  


The sky looks heavy, as if it’s on the verge of crashing down onto the world, drowning everything in clouds and gloomy grey. Derek feels like it'll suffocate him if he stares at it too long, as if it'll tumble down onto his face just to spite him.

A vibrating buzz hums through the material of his jeans.

**I’ll be out in 15. These kids are dumb as fuck.**

Derek smiles. Ever since Boyd had taken over the Biology study group, it’s been driving him nuts. Boyd is the kind of person who’ll put his absolute everything into explaining the workings of something to you. But only once. If you don’t get it by then, you’re ‘dumb as fuck’ and Boyd ‘ain’t got no time for that’. Especially when the kids are all 14 year old girls who wear UGGs and share an unhealthy infatuation with pumpkin spice lattes, because it’s just _that_ time of the year again.

Derek vigorously shakes his head against the metal flooring of the flatbed of Boyd’s pickup truck. His feet are dangling over the sides, while his heels are pounding against the metal in irregular rhythms. He definitely understands the whole ‘unhealthy infatuation’ thing.

But if he pinches eyes closed enough, and listens, really listens, it might’ve gone away. Maybe just a bit. At least with _fantasy Stiles_. _Real Stiles_ is filling in a few blanks, replacing a few parts. He’s a different Stiles now. Derek’s not sure if it can still be referred to as an ‘unhealthy infatuation’ when it comes to this foreign Stiles.

But there’s something there and it scares Derek. It’s heavier, more permanent.

"Uh, Derek?”

A voice pulls him out of his thoughtful trance. It seems familiar somehow, distantly reminds him of the crackling voice connected to the speaker of a phone.

"It’s me, Scott.”

Derek’s head shoots up. He pulls his feet over the ledge, sits up and turns towards the shadow of the stranger approaching from the other side of the parking lot. It’s 5:30 p.m. and the light of the lanterns isn’t enough to clearly make out the features of the boy. He’s smiling, though, that’s clear. It’s a little strained, a little awkward, but it’s present. Derek probably has the exact same kind of smile etched across the bottom of his face.

_Look approachable, Hale._

"Uh, hi,” he says hoarsely, his voice a low croak. Derek clears his throat and tries again, “Yeah. So. Hi,”  he repeats.

_Smooth._

Scott is wearing one of those fancy navy colored coats that remind Derek of Sherlock Holmes. His tussled, slightly curly hair definitely fits the demeanor. The TV series, though, not the movie.

The stranger comes to a halt in front of the tail end of the pickup truck, staring at Derek as if he isn’t really sure of what to do next. He scratches the back of his curls, scrunching up his nose in a manner that resembles a puppy rather than a thoughtful teenager.

"Hey,” the boy starts. "I - uh. I just wanted to thank you. You know, for what you did for Stiles. The whole bringing the guy home par-”

"Is he alright?’ Derek cuts off, the sudden question shooting out of his mouth like an unintentionally fired cannonball. Scott blinks.

"Yeah. Yeah, yeah he’s fine.”

"He wasn’t at school today.”

The many times Derek has wanted to whack himself with an inanimate object seems dangerously close to uncountable. He watches as the corners of Scott’s mouth quirk upward. It looks a little fond.

"No. Yeah, he’s bumming around at home. Too lazy to go to school. We had a geography test today. He’s fine, though.” Scott explains, the smile not wavering. Derek comes to the conclusion that Scott is a nice person. Someone with that kind of smile just has to be a nice person. His dark eyes have a gentle way about them. They seem to gaze upon Derek without intensely staring him down, and yet there seems to be something strong about the way he keeps their eyes connected.

"Oh, okay. That’s -” Derek clears his throat, "good to hear.”

There’s a moment of awkward silence stretching out into the seemingly imminent space between them. Derek doesn’t really know where to look. Eye contact is an increasingly difficult task for him. He’s working on it.

"So,” Scott pulls the word out until it fades with a cluck of his tongue. "Did you get fired?”

The other boy flinches back a bit, as if he’s afraid of the answer.

"No. Just got two months worth of toilet duty. It’s not as bad as getting fired, but - I mean you haven’t seen a real toilet until you’ve seen the one at 7 - Eleven. It literally embodies its definition.”

Derek scratches the back of his neck, looking at Scott over the rim of his glasses, hoping the words came out a little more laid back than he currently feels. Scott laughs. It’s a snort at first, but quickly turns into a shoulder quivering guffaw. Derek thinks this is an appropriate moment to whip out the word ‘guffaw’.

"Dude, I’m so sorry, must be like a whole entire new universe in there.”

Derek smiles.

"You have no idea.”

They start laughing. It’s nice to hear the metaphorical sound of ice breaking. A bit. It’s more of a crack.

"So, he’s alright then?”

Derek just needs to reassure himself, just needs to make sure that he did everything right. The laughing subsides to blips of heaving air.

"Dude, you literally saved his drunk ass. I just -" Scott pointedly flicks his eyes towards the bumper of the truck, his face hardening just the slightest bit.

"I just wish I was there, you know? It’s supposed to be the solemn duty of a bro to have his bro’s back.”

Derek internally snorts at that, because Scott just seems like the kind of person who’d use the word ‘bro’ twice in one sentence.

"It’s not your fault,” Derek murmurs, not knowing what else to say as he plays with the hem of his jeans. He scratches the tip of his nail against a patch of fading blue.

"Yeah,” Scott finally breathes. "Yeah, I guess.”

Another silence hums through the air, although it's less uncomfortable than the last.

"I have the exact same one,” Scott blurts. Derek is about to question the statement, when he sees Scott pointing at the safety pin button dangling from the front pocket of his backpack. It’s a round button with a white cross engulfed by a heart. Every employee at the Beacon Hills Hospital had been given one for Christmas last year.

"You have someone working in the hospital too?” he asks.

"Yeah. My mom. She’s a surgeon,” Scott answers, shooting Derek a small smile.

"Mine’s a nurse,” Derek states, pulling his backpack towards him and inspecting a small scratch etched into the middle of the pin, right inside the white cross.

"We should totally hook them up. My mom keeps on complaining about all the other doctors being asshats and all.”

Derek chuckles at that.

"My mom could be an asshat.”

"So could mine, but you never know if you don’t try,” Scott retorts, smiling that nice smile of his that makes Derek feel a little more comfortable in his skin.

"Talia.”

"Melissa.”

They both laugh. Again.

"I can’t believe I’m actively trying to make friends for my mom. Shouldn’t that be the other way around?” Scott jokingly questions.

There’s a ping and a buzz. The boy fumbles for something in his coat pockets, pulling out an iPhone. Derek is trying very, very hard not to roll his eyes right out of his head.

"And that’s her. Gotta go. Oh and uh - there’s this party at this place at one of the boat houses this Saturday. You should come. Bring your friends and everything,” Scott adds, a force swaying with his words, making them feel casual. The invitation feels a little out of place in the whole entire awkward thing they’ve had going on.

Derek feels tempted to say ‘yes’. To date, this has been his first invitation. His very first face-to-face, legit party invitation. _Party invitation_. Doesn’t that sound ridiculous? It’s as if it’s someone’s 11th birthday party at a go cart track.

"Uh, I’ll tell my friends, but I - I don’t think I can though. School’s pretty tough right now. Senior year and all, you know. Studying and stuff,” Derek half stutters, half mumbles, stumbling across his words as if he’d lost his footing.

And there it is again, that oh-so-familiar feeling of wanting to grab anything that'll fit into one hand and thrash it against his face. How is Derek _this_ cool?

Scott nods, pushing his lower lip upward in a silent "if that’s your decision". Derek likes that Scott doesn’t question him, likes the way he just takes his answer as a final statement.

They end up exchanging numbers and Scott turns his back with a wave, the soles of his shoes scratching against the dry gravel of the pavement.

 

♦︎

 

"Hold up, hold up, hoooold up. You’re telling me this Scott kid invited you to a legit party?! _Holy shit!_ ”

Erica is shrieking into Derek’s ear, practically spitting out the gigantic bite she’d taken out of her burger. The girl has this wild, fiery gleam in her eyes as if she’s on the verge of ecstatically combusting. If there is a human that is capable of ecstatically combusting, it’s Erica Reyes.

"Well, he told me I can bring you guys. I’m not going, but you know - you should,” Derek mentions, freeing the pickles from the sticky grasps of cheese on his beef patty.

"Let me guess,” Isaac starts, cocking an eyebrow towards Derek. He starts puffing up his posture, practically rising out of the booth.

"I have to study, because, like - _Harvard_ ,” he announces in a low, gravelly voice, obviously trying to sound like Derek. Apparently Isaac thinks he sounds like a drunk caveman on steroids. Cora would probably double high five the guy if she were here.

Derek settles for simply flinging a fry at his friend, which the other boy catches between his teeth. His mouth is flexing around the limp potato, a shit-eating grin plastered into place.

"Wow. That was so authentic. I literally saw you channel that raw and gruff energy,” Erica states, her voice drenched in sticky sweet sarcasm.

"Thank you, thank you. Mr. Hale is quite the complex specimen. My skills have exceeded my expectations gravely on this joyous day.”

Derek hurls a sticky pickle towards Isaac. It hits its target dead on, a green smudge gracing his friend's cheek. Isaac just leaves it there.

"You’re coming!” Boyd announces like he’s freaking Judge Judy.

"I’m not.”

"You are!” Both Erica and Isaac shout in unison, their eyes reflecting the flare of the diner lights like giant, polished marbles. An old lady one booth behind them gives the bunch a threatening glare, shaking her head, probably ashamed of today’s youth and Derek's terrible inability of being part of it.

"Guys, it’s not even up for discussion. I’m not going,” Derek huffs, willfully biting into his pickleless burger. Nothing beats Snack Shack burgers. 

"Can I get you bunch anything else? Nick just pulled out a fresh batch of brownies from the oven,” their waitress asks as she approaches the table.

"Ginger, you are literally the messenger of all good things. I love you. Yes, please!”

Isaac beams at Ginger, the only employee in the Snack Shack who knows each and every one of their usual orders by heart. And that’s a challenge.

"'Course hon'. Everybody up for brownies?” her fruity voice asks. Ginger's bright red nails come forward, fingers brushing strands of dark hair over her shoulders.

"As if that’s a question, Ginger!”

Erica flings her hands into the air in an exasperated huff. Ginger giggles one of her honey sweet laughs. Her twinkling brown eyes roam the table, pointedly resting on Derek. She quirks an eyebrow, tapping the back of her pen onto the small notepad resting in her hand. It's a short lived rhythm. Morse Code for 'Here we go again'.

"What are they ganging up on you for this time?”

Derek knows croaking out a lie would  be a bad decision in this whole entire situation. Ginger is capable of analyzing every single one of Derek's extensive variety of scowls in no more than two seconds tops.

"They want me to go to a party,” he eventually mumbles, viciously digging a cold fry into the ketchup puddle on the side of his plate.

"Derek,” she sighs in her ‘oh sweetpea’ voice.

"Go be a teenager for once. Go experience! Go make some memories!”

It’s the way Ginger says it, as if she’s not being too careful, nor is she being too vicious. It’s a gentle balance between encouraged nudging and full on shoving. The way Ginger says it just makes sense. Somehow.

Derek ignores the way the others rapidly nod and start throwing "See! Told you so!” against his head.

“Isaac, sweetie, you have a pickle on your face,” Ginger throws over her shoulder as she walks towards the kitchen, her dark curls swaying from side to side with each step.

 

♦︎

 

Derek is trying to squeeze his legs into the tightest pair of jeans that have ever existed in the universe of everything that is painfully tight.

"Yeah... No,” he chokes out, the words strangled. It's like the air has been completely compressed out of his lungs by the pressure of the denim abomination clinging to his skin.

"You’re not forcing it enough!” Laura shouts exasperatedly.

"Derek, you need to look good. This is a big thing! Your first party ever!” Cora practically shouts.

Derek side-eyes his little sister through the gap of the bathroom door. The girl has turned into an overexcited ball of energy, jumping and tumbling around on his bed with the springs creaking under the weight.

"This is ridiculous. Laura, give me my normal jeans back. These are-" He stares at the dark blue fabric clinging to his ankles in scrunching agony. "I don’t even have the right words to describe how much I abhor the-"

Laura’s hand shoves itself through the gap of the door, his normal pair of jeans dangling from her fingers.

"Ugh, shut up. Fine. If you don’t want to look dashing at your first party, then fine,” she grumbles.

Because in the 21st century how ‘dashing’ you look is defined by the tightness of your jeans.

Derek takes the pants out her hand, sighing with relief when his fingers brush over the worn out material.

Yeah. _These_ are pants.

"Okay,” Cora stretches out the word into eternity. "Shirt comes next.”

"I was going to wear my-"

"Nuh - uh! Don’t even start big guy. If you’re not wearing tight jeans, then you’re wearing a tight shirt,” Laura cuts him off. There’s the scratching sound of hangers being pulled and shoved across the bar hanging in his bedroom closet. Derek smacks his forehead against the back of the door.

"Why does everything have to be tight?!” He actually whines. As said, his family brings out the worst in him.

"Be - cause, Deedee! You need to show off some of that basketball muscle. Jeez, you’re like the least homosexual homosexual on the planet! Shouldn’t you have mutated into some sparkly rainbow fashion guru by now?!”

"That’s a Hollywood-induced stereotype and no, I don’t have to show off anything!”

"Yes, you do!” their voices boom back a little more discordant.

Great. Grandpa Ted.

"Derek, the fine lads will need some eye candy,” his grandpa states, his creaky voice traveling through the bathroom door. It's a dead serious assertion. Derek can't believe his sisters taught their grandfather the word ‘eye candy’.

"Grandpa, you have absolutely no say in this,” he huffs, pushing back the door once he's shimmied into his normal jeans. Grandpa Ted is leaning against the door frame giving Derek the oh-don’t-you-dare glare.

"Yes, I do. If you’re going to a shindig, I shall assist in your choice of attire.”

"Gramps, I don’t think anyone says 'shindig' anymore,” Cora snickers.

"But they say 'spherical dingleberry'?” he counters, his bushy eyebrows furrowing in a thoughtful manner. Derek holds back a grin and swallows the bubbling laugh back down into his stomach, suffocating it as much as he possibly can.

"You have to figure out what that is on your own. We have impregnated you with _wonder_ ,” Laura teases. She’s standing in front of Derek’s closet holding up two shirts, her eyes studying one at a time, probably analyzing which one is tighter. And color coordination, or whatever the hell girls do when they stare at shirts that long. Derek settles onto the bed next to Cora, flinging his back into the comforter. The poster of the Golden Trio is staring down at him. They’re judging him with their stupid wands and their stupidly stupid dramatic, whirling hair. Derek huffs.

_Shut the fuck up, Harry._

"I never asked for anybody's help. I don’t even know how this turned into a family meeting,” he groans into the pillow he’s draped over his face.

"It’s not a family meeting if the whole family’s not there,” a familiar voice rings.

Derek bites back another muffled groan. His mom is probably leaning over Ted’s shoulder, smiling like a kid on Christmas.

"Laura told me about a party?”

Of course she did.

"I’m reconsidering” Derek declares into the pillow.

"Too late for that! I’ve found the perfect shirt!”

 

♦︎

 

The half an hour drive to the party is an endless loop of Derek swallowing down the urge to rip the tight Henley off of his body, jump out of the car window, hop into his bed, and vigorously watch reruns of _The Big Bang Theory_. Everyone in the family was excited. Even grandpa Ted had been jumping off the walls, constantly making sure Derek didn’t forget his pepper spray, which Derek does not own. Derek’s pretty sure nobody owns that.

"We’re here!” Erica shrieks, putting an end to Derek’s fantasy of maybe being capable of tucking and rolling out of the car if he just believed in himself enough.

The lake house is not what people usually think a lake house should look like. It resembles a mini version of Caesar's Palace. Although it seems to be more of a ‘high school booze fest edition’ type of thing. Calling this monstrosity a ‘house’ is shameful.

Boyd pulls up behind a seemingly endless line of shiny Cabrios, dodging a few drunks dancing in the middle of the street.

"I feel ashamed to park this thing behind that beautiful automobile,” Boyd sighs, admiring the back of a slick BMW.

"It’s all about the character! Molly has a ton of it!”

Isaac slaps the driver on the shoulder with an impish grin. 'Molly' is the name they'd given the bumped up pickup truck Boyd had gotten for his 16th birthday. She can be a bit stubborn, but she's a delightful rickety old thing.

A silence follows. It feels a little uncharacteristic. Even Erica seems to be fidgeting a little more than usual and that’s practically impossible.

"Alright, what’s up? You were the ones who dragged me to this place. If you want to head over to the cinema, we could still catch _Guardians of the Galaxy._ The next one is in half an hour.“

Derek always has a backup plan prepared. Polished gold stars believe in the absolute brilliance of backup plans.

"Oh my god!” Erica barks. A hand cuffs him against the back of his head. "No! It’s just, this is a rich bitch party.”

"So, you’re afraid we won’t fit in? We won’t. Let’s just go watch that movie.”

Derek receives another smack against the head.

"What if they won’t let us in?” Isaac utters, staring out of the window.

"It’s nine. Everybody's too drunk to give a crap.”

Derek points at a shadow tumbling against one of the Cabrios, the impact triggering some sort of super sensitive car alarm. He cocks an eyebrow at his friends in a my-point-exactly manner.

"Fine. Let’s drink before we go in,” Boyd suggest. The thing about Boyd is, his ‘suggestions’ are never simply suggestions. They're declarations wrapped in sheep's wool. A bottle of Jack Daniels is flung into the air and Derek almost smacks his hands against his ears when Erica lets her larynx pull itself into a screech.

"Where’d you get that?” Derek asks. That’s hard liquor and Boyd’s fake ID is terrible to say the least. Also, Boyd’s parents have been sober for 16 and a half years.

"I've got my ways.”

The boy shrugs with one of his large shoulders. Nobody questions the Boyd one-shoulder shrug. It hides the answers to things that are better kept in the dark corners of secrecy for very good reasons. The Boyd one-shoulder shrug protects them from the truth.

"I say, we mentally prepare ourselves for _that_.”

Boyd flicks a hand forward, gesturing towards a couple of kids piggybacking in circles, running from some person in a banana suit.

"Those people know how to party. Big time,“ he murmurs, half to himself, half to the rest of them. Derek doesn’t notice the nodding motion he’s been immersing himself into until the opened bottle is shoved under his nose. The smell of thick alcohol burns through his nostrils.

"I’ll pass.”

 

♦︎

 

Derek is quickly reminded of why he enjoys spending Saturday nights in the comfortable confinements of his home. _Home_ can’t be incorporated with the twisted, repugnant _circus_ pounding around in this mini version of Ceasar's Palace.

Just like the lake house can’t be called a lake house, this party can’t be called a party. It’s an intoxication festival, a mad house.

Everybody’s laughing, shouting, moving, until all that Derek can see is a tsunami wave of sweat and drugs, the air scorching with sexed-up hormones and inebriation.

And that isn't even the worst part.

In the first two minutes of his ears being shattered senseless by the loud bass of the music, he’s lost the others. Awesome.

Derek feels like a stone in a thrashing river that just won’t budge no matter how hard the water hits him, and the water hits him pretty damn hard.  

This is awkward. He can’t even take out his Nokia in order to make himself look occupied, while vigorously playing Snake. Nokias don’t do well in this kind of place. Nokias are targets. Someone will probably whip out their iPhone, snap a picture, post it on their Instagram, and hashtag the possibilities of time travel.

Derek catches himself regretting not taking a swig from the bottle of whiskey. People keep on saying it takes the edge off. If it means what Derek thinks it means, he might take a sip of the red cup that has been standing on the tiny marble pillar right across from him. It's shamelessly staring at him, silently sending him ‘drink me’ signals.

Eventually Derek is capable of enforcing enough movement through his lower limbs and shuffles forwards, dodging a group of giggling girls pushing themselves through the entry hall in a ball of flimsy pink dresses and mile-high heels. He finally reaches the cup, eying its contents with suspicion. The brown liquid smells like a mixture of all things terrible in the world, which makes Derek decide to simply hold it. He needs to fit in somehow. ‘Fitting in’ seems like a good plan. Derek likes plans. Another good plan would be to maybe stop looming in the freaking doorway and settle for a corner in the living room, an area in which he can silently observe.

And that doesn’t sound creepy at all.

The thought of someone maybe approaching him and wanting to immerse themselves in a conversation with him - highly unlikely but possible - makes Derek decide to search for his friends in the maze of drunk teenagers and ridiculously expensive looking decor.

He heads for a hallway leading to the kitchen, barely managing to shove a rather largely built guy away from his shoulder who is trying to use Derek as a prop for the reenactment of his winning goal in his recent lacrosse game. At least that's what Derek thinks is happening.

The more Derek squeezes himself through the crowded hallways and jam-jacked rooms, the more he wonders if Stiles is here. It’s an uncontrollable thought that shoots through his brain like a torpedo.

He probably is here.

Scott should be here. Scott is Stiles’ best friend. Also, this is a ‘rich bitch' party at a mini version of Caesar's Palace.

He most definitely is here.

He most definitely is, because he’s right there, dancing between a group of girls and the person in the banana suit. It feels like one of those sappy 80’s rom-coms, where the protagonist watches as the world turns in super slow motion, a floodlight illuminating that one special person that he just can’t look past. And he really can’t. Not even if he tried. Stiles is probably the most erratic dancer Derek has ever encountered, and Derek gets lost on random youtube journeys regularly. He’s seen things, terrible things. Not this apparently.

It’s like watching an interpretive dancer on meth summoning an aztec god. Judging by the stash of E being passed around the house, that could actually be the case.

Stiles is flinging his hands into the air, limbs bashing in bizarre motions. He's shuffling with his feet, circling his hips to the beat, the liquid in his red cup gushing all over the place, dark droplets splattering into the air like a thousand little buzzing flies.

It looks perfectly, beautifully ridiculous. He’s grinning, laughing with his neck pulled back, a stretch of wonderful moonlight skin. His eyes are gleaming honey-amber in the sparks of the fairy lights. He looks happy.

A sudden thought pierces right through Derek’s heart. It’s a harrowing jab.

_It hurts knowing what that face looks like when it’s falling apart._

Derek wants Stiles to make his face stay like _that_ all the time. He wants his features to permanently echo openness and jubilance and sunshine. It’s the face that makes Derek’s inside go berserk, as if a horde of rhinos is stomping over the terrain of his organs. He hates that feeling, but loves it at the same time. It's thrilling in a way like he's buzzing with electricity.

Derek tries to busy himself with anything that will dull that uncomfortable feeling pulsating in his abdomen. He reaches for his glasses. The world blurs. It turns into a hazy, obscured blob of light and moving color smudges. The world looks kind of nice like this. In a way it reminds Derek of some surrealistic painting.

He wipes the lenses with the soft material of his shirt, the familiar motion relaxing his muscles just the tiniest bit. It’s Derek’s nervous tick. Whenever a situation gets far too distressing for his taste, he wipes his glasses clean. Sparkly shiny clean. It’s a long and thorough process that takes an embarrassingly large amount of concentration, but it calms him down with its familiarity and its short lived distraction.

When Derek feels like his glasses have reached that level of sparkly shiny clean, he slips it back onto his nose, his eyes slowly re-adjusting to the lenses. The crowd of dancing warm bodies is crystal clear.

So is the pair of bourbon eyes staring straight at him.

Well, _shit_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't ask me who grandpa Ted is.. I have no idea! For some reason I felt like the Hale family just needed some cooky grandpa. I totally love this dude and he's going to be in all the future "alive Hale family" fics :D


	3. Yoda Ted & Space Unicorns

It’s pretty obvious how much of an awkward person Derek is. Awkward with a side sprinkle of antisocial.

Stiles is staring at him. It’s the kind of intense staring that never wavers, never flickers, never breaks, no matter how many times you look away. The erratic thrashing of limbs has come to a stop and the other boy is flinging himself forward, whacking away a few stray hands, stumbling across a couple of dancing feet.

Stiles Stilinski is _moving_ towards Derek, while _looking_ at Derek.

And it's all absolutely wonderful, due to this current situation mirroring every single beginning of every single fantasy Derek has ever had about the boy. There should be fireworks igniting the humid air. Sappy love songs should start echoing through the room. Derek should be charming and cocky. He should be smiling and whipping out some smart pick-up line that'll make his crush swoon and melt into a puddle of ecstatic joy.

But this is reality and in reality Derek does things he isn't proud of. He tends to bathe in the light of his brilliant moments.

Because the next thing Derek knows, he’s whipping his body around, frantically following his feet into indecisive directions. His brain is letting loose the sirens, a constant pound of fuck, fuck, fuck meeting the pacing rhythm of his stumbling feet.

There’s a noise that sounds dangerously similar to the two-voweled structure of his name, but he’s hoping the countless voices thrashing through the house are just deceiving him, or maybe it might just be the damage of his ears ringing in his head. The volume of the speakers is probably anything but healthy.

Derek has no idea where, or who, or what he’s tumbling towards. All he’s sure of is that he’s one big, fat freaking idiot.

While he's stumbling through the house, he keeps on making up these completely impossible theories of how maybe Stiles had thought Derek was a different person, someone he knows.

Yeah. Maybe Derek looks like someone Stiles knows and he just wanted to say hi. Derek might actually believe that is quite the convincing speculation.

Yeah. The again, maybe Derek’s just one big, fat freaking idiot.

The next thing his brain perceives are his hands pressing against a glass surface. It swings backwards and gives way to a wave of cool, breathable air. His chest is heaving, his heart is drilling into the bones of his ribs.

 _Crap_.

His eyes are staring at a smudge of dirt on the tip of his left Converse.

 _Crap_.

"You okay, man?”

Derek’s neck snaps upward. A bunch of students are staring at him, perplexion written all over their perfect prep school faces.

"Yeah,” he manages to force through his dry throat.

Did he just run a freaking marathon?

Derek jumps down the steps of the terrace, his feet landing in a soft patch of grass. The comfy, cottony feeling under the soles of his shoes seems odd, as if the intensity of the party has somehow numbed him to all things gentle. His ears are brightly ringing as he strolls towards the shore of the lake, trying to force his heart to stop pounding the fresh air right back out of lungs. The lake seems peculiarly still. It resembles a giant mirror, echoing the constellation of stars sprinkled across the night sky, the moon hidden behind a veil of one single foggy blob.

Derek walks past a few couples lying in the grass gazing at the sky and almost trips over a few stoners, speculating about how far up bald people go when they wash their face. That’s actually a really good question.

Derek settles onto a rusty bench at the foot of the lake, the metal sinking into the dark mud puddled around the water. Palm sized pebbles and withering leaves are peaking out of the dirt below. The little waves lap at the tips of his shoes. Derek’s eyes roam the mirror-like surface, watching it sway and ripple every time a gust of wind whips across it, distorting the reflected stars into thin spinning lines. It feels like Derek’s brain has been fogged up by all the cigarette smoke and the thundering rhythms of the music. It’s nice being able to think properly. Although the questions tumbling down onto his brain aren’t all that joyous.

 _Where the hell did the red cup with Satan’s urine end up,_ he wonders.

He keeps pondering on that thought, occupying his mind with logical thinking and theories. It’s so much easier than letting that other thought nibble its way through the confinement Derek has built around it.

He’s about to come to a thoroughly evaluated conclusion, when the distinct smell of cigarette smoke burns through his nose.

"This seat taken?”

Derek is considering jumping into the lake. It’s utterly terrifying how much he has to actually hold back the incredible urge to simply fling himself into the water and out of existence.  

Derek knows exactly who is standing right behind him.

 _Act like a human,_ he orders his brain, but everything it’s currently capable of doing is cranking his heartbeat back up, making it roar and thunder and bawl.

"No,” he murmurs.

That seems like a good start.

"Awesome.”

Slim fingers wrap around the backrest of the bench, and in one fluid movement the boy jumps into the free spot.

And then Stiles Stilinski is just there, sitting right next to him, staring at him with the most beautiful pair of eyes that have ever dared to exist.

It’s surreal.

"Derek,” he starts.

Absolutely, fucking surreal, incredibly close to hypnagogic.

"Thank you,” Stiles says.

Derek hopes he isn’t staring. He really hopes he isn’t scorching away Stiles’ corneas with his utterly shameless gaping. The boy settles his forearms onto his thighs. His legs jump up and down in a flimsy pattern while he cards his fingers through his disheveled hair, which causes it to look even more disheveled.

"Scott didn’t want to tell me who hauled me back home last Friday. I had to practically torture it out of him. Not literally, but it was pretty close to that,” he explains, his hands wiping over his face, trapping his features behind his fingers.

If Derek didn’t know any better, he’d think Stiles is a little embarrassed, or maybe he’s still flushed from the crack contemporary dance recital he had going on a few minutes ago. Dark brown eyes peer up at him through a cage of fingers.

Derek’s insides plummet. It's an unwanted free fall that completely takes him by surprise.

How is someone capable of looking this adorable?

"I deprived him from his emergency snack stash of Reese’s Pieces and he told me it was 'Derek who works at 7 - Eleven'.”

"Is that really a thing?”

Derek feels like applauding or patting himself on the back, because that right there was a coherent, English sentence.

"Huh?”

Stiles crinkles his nose. Derek is trying very hard to not shriek like a thirteen year old girl.

"'Derek who works at 7 - Eleven'.”

"Yeah, it’s a thing! Everyone knows 'Derek who works at 7 - Eleven'. He works at 7 - Eleven. The only place in Beacon Hills that sells alcohol 24/7. Also, I mean look at you.”

Stiles cocks an eyebrow at him, those amber eyes holding his gaze just a little too long to be considered comfortable. Not that anything about this whole entire situation can be considered comfortable.

"What do you mean ‘look at me?’”

"What do you mean look at - " Stiles huffs, cutting off the repetition of words as he gazes at the lake. His fingers are bringing a cigarette up to his lips, his shoulders slightly trembling in a silent chuckle.

Derek knows exactly what he meant. He knows that he should be happy that genetic inheritance is a thing with human beings, but he just can’t really cope with stuff like this. He can't handle people indirectly pointing towards it. If he's being completely honest, he doesn’t have one tiniest bit of a clue of how to deal with attention of any manner. Sometimes Derek wishes he were invisible or a hobo.

Yeah. A hobo.

"You're welcome, by the way,” Derek says, internally slapping himself for being so terrible at changing topics. It doesn’t sound particularly nice. Derek might be accepting the fact that he does actually have the tendency to sound like a caveman on steroids. He wouldn’t admit that to anyone, though. Especially not Cora or - god forbid - Isaac.

"Did I show you my penis?”

The sudden question makes Derek choke on his own saliva.

"Oh my god. Please tell me I didn’t like strip and whirl it around screaming ‘helicopter.’”

"So, I’m guessing scarring someone for life isn’t something you’d have liked to repeat?” Derek retorts, giving himself a mental thumbs up for making Stiles giggle.

"Did I, though?” he asks a little tentatively.

"No.”

"Oh, thank god! I’m sorry. All I remember is a linoleum floor, bathroom tiles and Batman.”

Stiles glances at Derek, his brown eyes slightly crinkling at the edges.

"And scary eyebrows that are weirdly attractive,” he adds impishly. Derek coughs out a laugh, because that was some sort of odd compliment his brain doesn’t know how to process.

The silence that follows is filled by the nervous fidgeting of Derek’s fingers and the thrashing of the woodpecker in his chest. He doesn't manage to do anything else but stare at the boy next to him like he's some rare specimen, a foreign life form. Stiles breathes through the cigarette, his lips moistening the tip as he inhales. He’s staring out onto the lake again, letting the smoke whirl into the air, veiling his face in a thick fog.

Apparently he didn’t actually want to quit smoking. Maybe he’s just bad at sticking with things.

Stiles cocks his head towards the cigarette clamped between his fingers, moving it towards Derek. Derek shakes his head.

"Nearly nine out of ten lung cancers are caused by smoking,” he mentions - and he immediately wants to dunk his head into the lake and just drown himself.

"Huh. You’re that kind of person. Goody two-shoes," Stiles teases. Or at least Derek thinks it's teasing. Derek doesn't know. Derek doesn't know anything anymore. All he wants to do is drown himself until he tumbles down into the pits of hell, and then he wants to shove his face into the fire and let the heat scorch his brain away.

"I’m trying to quit,” he sighs, eyeing the cigarette, twirling the paper between his fingers. "Obviously I’m pretty bad at quitting. Pretty bad at drinking too."

"I know it’s none of my business, but last Friday looked like you’re genuinely shitty at it."

_That was actually kind of cool, Derek. High five._

Stiles starts laughing - actually _laughing_ \- and it’s a nice harmonious trill that makes every single molecule of Derek's body hum with the resonance.

"I’m working on it. I don’t know," Stiles sighs, weakly flinging a hand into the air. "I have a bad coping mechanism when it comes to stress."

"School?”

"Amongst other things.”

Derek tries not to think about the way the boy had clutched at his shoulders, the way he'd sobbed and  whispered ‘mom’ until he seemed to have mumbled away its meaning.

Stiles turns towards Derek. The boy simply looks at him. It isn’t some weird intense staring contest. Derek can’t even believe he doesn’t feel the familiar urge to look away like he usually does when he talks to a stranger. Stiles' eyes are utterly mesmerizing. They're a whirling spectrum of auburn, gold, and honey, and he smells like smoke, cologne, and tangy remnants of alcohol. In a way it’s all oddly comforting.

"I could help you out.” Derek lets the words slip out of his mouth before he could let his brain filter his thoughts.

"With the school thing,” he blurts. Stiles eyebrows shoot up. "I tutor in my free time.”

The other boy grins with his perfect straight teeth.

"Of course you do.”

Stiles chuckles, slumping into the bench. He takes a deep breath.

"I have problems in bio and - uh chem. Okay, actually, if I’m being completely honest, I’m pretty bad in every subject that currently exists in my curriculum.“

There’s a slight frustration trembling through the words and Stiles drags his eyes away from Derek's.

What if Derek were to actually help him out? What if helping out might make the stress less? What if it might even make the drinking and the sadness less?

This is a stranger. Derek shouldn’t give a single shit about a stranger’s problems. But the stranger is Stiles and Stiles is worth giving tons of shits about, because there’s something wrong with him. There's something that needs to be made right. Derek wants to make it right. Derek needs to help.

"I can help you.”

The words feel a little deeper, a little heavier once they slip across his lips. Stiles’ Adam’s apple bobs. Something flashes across the boy’s eyes, a brief spark that Derek doesn’t have enough time to identify. He wishes he did. He wishes he could see past the bourbon and the amber. He wishes he could see the workings of Stiles' mind and the pain and the sadness it keeps locked away from the rest of the world.

Derek smiles a small smile, trying to make it look as reassuring as possible. He seriously hopes it doesn’t look creepy. Cora has told him he has a creepy pedo-rapist smile when he’s being particularly awkward.

But Stiles smiles back. It’s barely a twitch tugging at the corner of his lips, but it’s there.

"You should do that more often. It’s nice,” the boy says, the words barely a whisper. It’s as if the air is heating up around Derek’s face, electric and red. Never in his life has something this simple felt so intimate. Derek barely has time to wrap his head around it until it just disappears.

It’s gone. Stiles is gone.

He’s walking back towards the house, shoulders slumped, hands dug deep into the pockets of his jeans, and all Derek has left is an empty space on a bench that feels a little too large for one person.

♦︎

 

Derek is lying in his bed, staring at the tattered poster hanging across the ceiling. Hermione is looking particularly judgmental today, which is why his eyes settle on Ron’s. The Ginger has this comforting "durr" face that seems to make Derek's life a little more bearable.

The memories of yesterday are switched on constant replay, his brain analyzing and reanalyzing the conversation between Stiles and him. He still isn’t sure it actually happened. It was brief and awkward, somehow even terrifying. Derek tries not to think about the constant eye contact or the smiling or the laughing. And before he knows it, he's thinking about those eyes, and those lips, and that hair, and that nose, and those moles, and -

"Uuuuuugh,” Derek groans into the silence looming over his room. He fumbles for a pillow and smacks it over his face, because -

"Uuuuuuuuuuuugh.”

"Hangover? I have just the right concoction prepared, my boy!”

The slurred sound of grandpa Ted’s slippers sweeps through his room.

"Not hungover, just -" Derek cuts off his muffled words.

Just - what?

There’s a weight pulling down the side of his mattress. It feels odd and uncomfortable, but it settles back into something pleasant when grandpa Ted rolls onto the comforter.

"No hangover? Fine, I’ll drink it.”

"Are you hungover?!”

"No. I’ll just drink it.”

Derek snorts.

"From here the elder wand sort of resembles a buttplug.”

Derek laughs and shoves the pillow against his grandpa's face.

"Thanks, grandpa. That’s in my brain now.”

Ted coughs out a chuckle. He’d been the one who’d given Derek the books in the first place. They’d both turned it into some reading marathon, discussing the pros and cons of Deluminators and wishing they owned a Grow-Your-Own-Warts kit, in order to piss off Mrs. Bushwick, the lady who used to work at Timothy’s Bakery. The old bitch.

"You're very welcome,” grandpa Ted mumbles. "So, what’s got you all flustered?”

The old man bumps his elbow into Derek’s side. Derek just bites his bottom lip, clamping down, keeping his thoughts from gushing out of his mouth. Grandpa Ted is like some weird, magical word-coaxer without even trying.

"Are you afraid you won’t get the scholarship?”

"What? No.”

"What? No? Is it even more serious than your academic future?” the man asks quizzically. "Is it a boy?” he adds with the hint of a tease.

_God damnit!_

"No.”

"You sure?”

"No.”

_God damnit!_

"Aaaah. The chaos that is love,” grandpa Ted sighs.

Derek bites down onto his bottom lip again, a little more forceful than before.

Love was a chaos for his grandpa. He lost his wife before Derek was born. Apparently the man had never been the same.

Derek shakes his head.

"It’s not love,” he finally states. Because it isn’t. What he feels for Stiles Stilinski is a confusing fascination of some sorts, a desire for something that his teenage brain can’t possibly process with its lack of life experience. At least that's what Derek thinks this is. At this point he's too confused to question it.

"Derek, I’ll skip the questions and the nagging. It might not seem simple, but it is. If you can’t look past someone, no matter how hard you try, you’ll eventually have to deal with it. Otherwise that person is going to be in the way forever, stopping you from seeing what lies behind.”

It’s a given that grandpa Ted has his moments. He can switch from goofy lunatic to wise Yoda with the switch of a button.

"Your mother’s making smashed potatoes. Get ready, coco puff.”

His moments never last long.

"It’s still called mashed potatoes.”

"That’s what they want you to think!”

And with that Ted heaves himself off of the bed. He gives Derek a sincere smile before languidly strolling out of his room and disappearing into the hallway.

Derek rips his glasses from his face and flings them into the rumpled sheets. With a groan he rolls over. He grabs his phone.

Ted is right.

Derek can’t look past Stiles. It’s as if through the course of a year the thought of him has grown into this gigantic monument up in his head, taking up more space than he wants it to, more than he needs it to. There’s something he knows about the boy, something that probably not a lot of people know. It might be something that nobody knows, except for Derek.

He’ll eventually have to deal with it. He’ll eventually have to figure out what lies behind all of this. Maybe it's because he knows a secret. Maybe it's because he feels like he shares a burden with this stranger.

Whatever the reason, Derek has to face him. Derek has to face reality.

♦︎

"Hi.”

Stiles is wearing a gigantic knit sweater, sweat pants and the most neon yellow socks Derek’s eyes have ever been blinded by. He looks like the embodiment of comfy. Derek has only ever seen him in expensive school uniforms and flashy coats or collared shirts. This is different. The boy leaning against the door frame is a completely new person, someone more laid back, more approachable.

"Hi.”

Derek has to practically force the words out of his mouth, because to put it lightly, Stiles looks eatable, and Derek is inappropriately hungry.

He suddenly feels extremely overdressed. Derek hadn’t known what the heck to wear. His usual attire hadn't seemed to cut it when he’d thought about tutoring a guy who lives in a castle and probably has a trust fund that would put the Rockefellers to shame.

He even let Laura make his hair do stuff. His hair is untamable, so it’s doing stuff completely half-assed. Derek just hopes Stiles appreciates the effort. Then again, why would he? Derek’s here to tutor, not to be appreciated for the immense amount of effort put into his outward appearance.

"So, you wanna hang out on my doorstep or do you wanna come in?” Stiles asks, scrubbing a hand over the back of his head, holding back a yawn. Derek tries his best to snap out of the Stilinski-induced trance he’s been petrified into and makes his feet stumbled forward.

"You can leave your shoes over here."

Stiles points towards a cabinet next to the door overflowing with shoes. Derek almost feels embarrassed for only owning his pair of tattered Converse. Stiles apparently owns a freaking shoe store.

"Are you hungry? Thirsty? Coffee, maybe?”

Derek follows Stiles through a long hallway leading to the kitchen. Everything in this house is far too large and somehow uncomfortably empty. Derek finds himself hoping they’ll study in his room. The blank vacuum emanating through every single corner of this place creeps him out.

"Yeah, coffee would be nice," he replies, watching Stiles lazily turn towards the kitchen counter. He fidgets with some weird Nespresso contraption that reminds Derek of a mini space shuttle.

Stiles starts humming as he scrambles through kitchen cabinets. Watching Stiles in a kitchen is probably one of the most mesmerizing things. He whirls and shuffles, each movement somehow indecisive and yet sure at the same time, as if he’s constantly questioning his certainty in things. He blurts out random tunes, yawns, and occasionally stumbles over the stretched out tips of his neon socks. Even watching him decide between peanut butter and strawberry jam and eventually concluding to just dump it both between two slices of toast seems to be exceedingly fascinating.

"What?” Stiles' puzzled look rips Derek right out of his thoughts.

"Hm? No, it’s just weird. You know - being here again,” Derek stutters, blushing at being caught red-handed with unapologetic staring.

"Oh."

Stiles starts making his limbs do this awkward giggly thing that really doesn’t help reduce the burning heat accumulating in Derek's cheeks one bit.

"Can we please just like, forget that?” he pleads, pulling at the hem of his enormous sweater. The boy suddenly steps back towards the kitchen counter and opens a window. A whisk of chilled air blows through the kitchen, playing with the loose locks of Stiles’ hair.

"Here!” He points towards the wide open window.

"We are metaphorically throwing that memory out. It’s literally set free into the rest of the fucking universe, and it’s never coming back!”

Stiles shouts the rest of the sentence to the world outside. Derek chuckles. The boy almost thrashes backward when his fingers slip from the window handle whilst trying to pull it closed. Derek presses himself away from the kitchen island and helps him pull the window into place. He ignores the way their fingers touch. It’s odd touching him again, feeling the smoothness of his skin slide against his. Derek pulls his hand back, as if the other boy’s skin had torched him through the contact.

"Thanks," Stiles says. His voice is far too close. Derek turns his head, and he’s right there. Stiles is close enough to touch.

Shut the fuck up, Derek mentally shouts at his heart. He forces himself to swallow down the ball of heated tension forming in his chest. Derek manages a slight nod before he pulls away and heads back towards the kitchen island, distancing himself from the heat that Stiles is practically exuding like a furnace.

"So, we good?” the boy asks, his voice a little shrill.

Derek manages another nod.

"Awesome,” Stiles breathes. He turns back towards the Nespresso space shuttle, pulling a mug from under the nuzzle and pushing it towards Derek.

"Thanks,” Derek murmurs, happy he actually accomplished to choke out a human word. Stiles clears his throat as he sticks another capsule into a slot embedded in the top of the space shuttle. Derek can't stop staring at those fingers.

"So, Derek. You said we should start with the problem child.”

"Huh?”

"Biology.”

"Oh, uh, yeah. So, what’s the problem child of the problem child?”

Stiles laughs.

"Everything about the problem child is one a gigantic fucking problem child.”

Derek snorts.

 ♦︎

 

"And this is my bedroom, but you already know that. I literally have no freaking clue how you managed to find it or how you hauled me up here,” Stiles wonders as he climbs up the ladder, giving Derek a view he really shouldn’t be enjoying, because that’s inappropriate, very inappropriate.

"Don’t even ask,” Derek murmurs, as he peeks his head through the opening of the trap door.

"Ha. Ha," Stiles' huffs. The boy is sitting in the middle of the red rug, his legs crossed, the sun beaming through the back of his head, turning his chaotic hair into a glowing halo. The room looks cozy in the morning light. Everything about it seems softer, as if the edges of the colors splayed across the space are washing into each other. Derek really likes Stiles’ room. It’s a place he immediately feels comfortable in.

"Do you play the piano?” Derek asks, nudging his head towards the instrument across from him.

"Me? What? God, no. I mean don’t get me wrong, I wish I could, but no matter how many lessons I had, I just kept on sucking even harder.”

Derek wants to jab a fist into his groin for thinking too much about the ‘sucking’ part.

Again. Inappropriate.

"It’s my mom’s. Well, it used to be. Cancer.”

It’s as if the gleam in Stiles' eyes wavers. Pieces start falling into place in Derek’s mind. He seems to have figured out one part of the gigantic puzzle that is Stiles Stilinski.

So, cancer.

"I’m sorry.”

"I never really understood why people apologized for the loss of others like it’s their fault,” Stiles sighs, brushing his thumbs against the rim of his coffee mug. That’s something Derek had asked himself as well when his dad had walked out on his family. People kept on giving him that remorseful look, as if they could’ve done something but didn’t. Because they couldn’t, of course they couldn’t.

Derek has no idea why he just apologized. He wishes being a comforting presence could be easier for him.  

"My mom was an artist too. That’s the only thing that actually stuck,” Stiles adds, gesturing towards the mural surrounding the room.

"You’re really good," Derek mentions as his eyes follow the movements of Stiles’ hands. From where he's standing, he can spot landscapes and faces and lots and lots of Batmans.

Derek settles next to the boy on the rug, which is so much more fluffier than he’d expected it to be.

"Thanks. That’s the only thing you won’t have to worry about. Arts class is the only time I actually pay attention.”

Derek smiles. Stiles quirks an eyebrow and points towards his lips.

"I really, really like that,” he whispers, as if it’s the most easiest, most common thing to say.

Derek half smothers himself with hot coffee.

♦︎

"I can’t do this.”

"Yes, you can.You just did it two minutes ago.”

"Yeah, but that was different.”

"No. It’s the exact same thing, just the muscles in the arm.”

"But the muscles in the legs are different.”

"No, they respond the exact same way.”

"Dereeeek.”

"Stiles.”

"Let’s take a break.”

"We just took a break for 27 minutes.”

"You actually counted the minutes?!”

"No. I have a watch - and I can subtract.”

"Ugh.”

Stiles is sprawled across the red rug like a starfish, clutching a pen in one hand and a granola bar in the other. Derek is actually pleasantly surprised of how much effort the guy puts into listening and studying, as if he actually genuinely wants to do it (unlike the many students Derek tutors during the week).

After Stiles had explained the whole ADHD part to him, the way he’d sometimes immerse himself into something so far off topic that he’d forget what the heck Derek had just explained to him, his learning style becomes more understandable. Or the way he’d start doodling cartoons of Derek, sitting on a unicorn and flying through space. He’s smart. He just needs the right motivation and a person who’ll actually be willing to give it to him. It’s also surprisingly easy talking to Stiles when it comes to the human anatomy and the nervous system. Derek feels confident talking to him about something he knows he's an expert in. For a brief moment he even feels comfortable sitting across from Stiles, helping him out with bio exercises. It’s not just due to Derek feeling sure when it comes to the subject, but also due to Stiles being one of the most easiest people to talk to, once you’ve looked past the assholish, impulsive behavior and the cockiness. It’s just Stiles. Derek likes this Stiles, this jubilant, funny rainbow kid with a knack for drawing space unicorns. But Derek knows that’s not all he is. It’s just one part of him. The other parts are hidden, locked behind a ten foot indestructible wall that seems far too high to climb from where Derek is sitting.

"Well, it’s already five. So, I guess we could call it a day?”

"You mean you could call it a day. You’re like a slave driver,” Stiles muffles into the rug.

"But you feel prepared for the test on Tuesday, right?”

Stiles turns his head to look at Derek. He’s smiling. It's the simple tug of the corners of his mouth, a hint of something warm and wonderful. It's doing things to Derek's intestines.

"Thanks,” he says. "Again, I owe you like twice as much now.”

"It’s alright.”

"How much money do you usually charge?”

The question is like a slap in the face. Of course he thinks it’s for money. Derek has no idea why he’s surprised by it. By all means, he did tell Stiles that he tutors. Then again, Derek doesn’t want to make it all painfully obvious, which he hopes it isn’t already. He really, really hopes it isn't.

"It’s on the house,” he simply answers, hoping that sounded just as cool as it had in his head. It probably didn't.

"Next time then,” Stiles says. His words are painted in a husky undertone, the kind that reverberates right through Derek’s ear canal and straight into his groin. Stiles tugs the corner of his lips even further apart and before Derek has time to prepare his brain, he's face-to-face with Stiles Stilinski's dreamy smiles.

 _Next time_. As in there will be another time. As in Derek’s heart is about to explode right out of his chest.

♦︎

When Derek gets home his jeans feel painfully tight, clasping his swelling nether regions in a strained grip. He can’t fucking help it. He’d been in Stiles’ room, and Stiles had been giving him those looks that had made him want to pounce right then and there. Derek had wanted to tear the sweatpants right off of his legs and take him in nothing but that stupidly colossal sweater.

"Ugggh.”

Derek practically growls as he stumbles up the stairs. He’s probably waking the whole entire house up, but finesse isn’t his strong suit when his cock is throbbing for him to just touch it. He’s eager and horny and burning all over. Derek holds onto the door handle in time for it not to slam against the wall. His self control is currently on the verge of 'fuck that shit'. He closes the door behind him as silently as his quaking hands will let him before he flings himself onto his bed, biting into a pillow as his fingers rip the zipper of his jeans down. Derek doesn’t even have a high enough tolerance level for horniness to just shimmy out of his pants. All he’s yearning for is his freaking hand on his freaking dick.

"Nnnngg- fuck. Ha -”

Derek clutches the heavy warmth resting in his palm, pre-come already dripping over the sweltering tip. He presses the pad of his thumb against it, relishing in the shivers that surge across his spine. He doesn’t even have the decency to enjoy the electric waves pulsating under his touch before he’s ferociously rutting against his hand, tugging and rubbing, smearing the pre-come in hot, wet slickness, his thumb constantly circling over the tip. His hips snap upwards meeting each and every thrust of his palm, slipping in and out of the cage of fingers. All he can think of is Stiles - his lips, his slim fingers and the expanse of pale, mole splattered skin. Derek’s breath comes in rugged blips, his chest heaving in a frantic tempo, every muscle in his body strained, tense and ready to release.

There’s a bright, white light flashing behind his lids. Derek pinches his eyes shut as he drowns in whisky-gold and husky whispers.

"Stiles."

It’s nothing but a hoarse whimper, utterly wrecked and pleading.

Crap. This is going to be a problem. A huge freaking problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yehaaa awkward Deedee! I don't know. Masturbation scene felt like a must. I'm not sorry. Not even one single bit! (─‿‿─)


	4. Winky Faces & Sort-Of-Comfy Silences

"Okay. What the actual fuck. Why is Stiles Stilinski waving at -” Erica practically spits out her morning coffee, "at _you?!_ ”

It’s an otherworldly moment that is currently gracing its brilliance onto the the parking lot of Beacon Hills High School and Beacon Hills Preparatory Academy. Stiles Stilinski is waving at Derek Hale.

And Derek Hale feels like running, running until his feet give up and he vomits his soul out from the increase of lactic acid production. One week of tutoring, and Stiles is acknowledging Derek on school grounds.

Stiles is smiling at him, his lips flexing around a cigarette, his hand moving from left to right.

Yup. He’s waving. Derek nods, because Derek is so cool.

"Wait. So, that’s why we couldn’t find you at the party.”

Erica side-eyes him with a knowing smirk. He snorts, bumping his shoulder into hers as they head towards the school entrance. Derek tries to keep himself from blushing, hiding his face in the mold of his scarf, inhaling the heady lemon grass smell of laundry detergent.

"I tutor him.”

Derek reaches for her thermos. It’s the one with Iron Man’s Arc Reactor printed onto the front. He’d given it to Erica for her fifteenth birthday. They seem to have become quite the inseparable couple once sophomore year had started. Stress and caffeine go hand in hand when it comes to growing up.

"You tutor him?! Since when? Why the hell didn’t you say anything?”

Erica punches him against his shoulder, flinging her arm into the air, letting the Arc Reactor sway above her head and out of Derek’s reach. The innards are gushing out of the lid, dribbling down its metal confinement. Derek internally weeps at the precious loss of those compressed, liquified coffee beans.

"For a week now. You were too busy being hungover for two days straight and then after that I -”

"Jesus! Okay first of all. We’re friends, Derek! You’re supposed to tell me that kind of stuff, because he was just waving at you and you look like you’re gonna explode. Also, stop judging me. Drinking is all about the journey, not the destination!” Erica explains in her gravelly I’m-super-deep voice, flicking a strand of bleached blonde curls over her shoulder.

"You did not just make that up.”

Derek cocks an eyebrow, vehemently staring at her until Erica groans and defeatedly shoves her thermos into his chest.

"It’s from a book I’m reading. It’s about this introvert chick who writes fanfiction about these two super cute, magical gay dudes. Simon and Baz. She sorta reminds me of you sometimes.”

"I didn’t know I write fanfiction about two super cute, magical gay dudes.”

"Aw. You didn’t deny the introvert part, though,” Erica coos, teasingly pinching one of his cheeks. Derek bats her hand away.

"I don’t think Baz is a name.”

"Neither is Stiles,” Erica states, her tone a little thoughtful. The girl stops in her tracks, freezing between the broken vending machine and the doors to the cafeteria. A few students bump into her, a handful mumbling drowsily ‘fucking watch it’, but she doesn’t even flinch as her features immediately harden.

"Oh my god, Derek!”

Damnit!

"How are you that good at averting a topic?! I mean you’re like a creepy conversation ninja! I literally almost fell for it. But not this time! We are so totally talking about this!” Erica huffs in theatrical exasperation. Her blonde locks almost seem frizzier than usual, the way they complement her squinted laser beam death glare.

"No, we’re not.”

"Derek. It’s Friday.”

Derek strangles out a long sigh. Friday mornings are gossip 101’s. Well, for Erica. For Derek, the free period they share from 8:00 a.m. to 8:45 a.m. is more of a listen-and-just-nod type of thing.

Erica turns on her heels and stomps into the cafeteria, heading towards one of the ‘nice’ tables at the corner of the hall, situated right next to the giant window that opens up to the sports field of the prep school. They’re considered ‘nice’, because you get to watch hot prep school students sweat in expensive sports jerseys and crop tops while eating. It’s a wonderful thing, really.

Erica pastes on one of her angelic smiles and pats a hand onto the empty space on the bench. Her ruby red lips almost resemble the flare of a beacon, the way they seem to scorch away the brilliance of every other color in the room.

"Come here, big guy. It’s feelings time.”

"Don’t call it that, Erica."

"It is, Derek. I have like a week of catching up to do!”

Erica shoots him another one of her death glares that make his nervous system switch straight to flight mode. It’s that scary. Erica tends to be just as horrifying as his sisters at times. There's no doubt those girls are capable of total world domination. Derek’s one hundred percent sure of that.

With a grunt he slides onto the bench, steadying his head onto his knuckles as he digs his elbow into the table.

"Please do commence,” he says, a fake sense of interest plastered onto his face.

"You’re not funny,” she spits."Did you make a move?”

"What? Why would I do that? I barely know the guy and also I -"  Derek nibbles on his bottom lip, averting his gaze to the flaking color of the plastic surface resting under his elbows. "I sorta suck at moves.”

"Because you don’t have any,” Erica mentions casually. She rummages through her backpack, sorting through stray, crumpled paper and IKEA pencils, until she pulls out a sandwich.

Mrs. Reyes makes the best sandwiches.

"Self-esteem boosted,” Derek mumbles. Erica grins and slides the other half of her sandwich towards him, which he immediately grabs, stuffing as much of the bread into his mouth that will fit in one mouthful. Derek truly doesn’t feel like talking. Not that he usually does. Also, the sandwich is amazing. Avocado and bacon.

"Did he make any moves? I mean, he sorta looks like he’d make a move. But then again, you’re Mr. Oblivious.”

"He didn’t do anything.”

Derek chews, pondering on the thought with each flex of his jaw. He replays yesterday’s tutoring session. Stiles had been smiling a lot and there had been a lot of eye contact and more compliments about his smile. But then again, Derek has no idea how the mechanics of flirting work. It scares him how he literally has no idea how any of this stuff works. Derek comes to the conclusion that Stiles is simply a naturally charming individual and takes pleasure in exhibiting his cavalier ways.

"Did he touch you? You don't have to be ashamed. You can talk to me. Derek, tell me where he touched you, on this sandwich right here," the girl states with forced seriousness, gesturing towards her sandwich. Derek doesn't even have enough grumpy in his system to hold back a laugh.

"Erica, no. There was no touching. I’m just a guy he met a week ago.”

"Wait! So, he didn’t remember you?” Erica asks, her eyes wide as she stares Derek smack in the face.

This is the first time any of his friends have mentioned that Friday. Derek had told them to never speak of ‘the night of the Banjaxed’ and that had been that. If Derek doesn’t want to talk about something, he won’t talk about it. They understand. He’s thankful for it.

"No.”

Derek bites down on an avocado piece sticking out of the two toasts. He’s genuinely happy Stiles doesn’t remember any of it. It would’ve made things a million times more awkward. Derek knows things about him, things he shouldn't know. It might even be a secret that the boy had wanted to keep locked up.

Derek wouldn’t want people to find about the way he felt when it comes to the loss of his dad. All the anger and the heartbreak. He’s dug a ditch in his head and shoved it all in there. The things that are in that ditch are things he wants to forget. You never want people to know about the things you’re trying to forget; the things you're trying to escape from.

Especially strangers.

"Wow. But it makes it easier right? Like a clean slate?”

"For him anyways,” Derek murmurs, his mouth working on the avocado piece.

"So. When are you gonna make a move?” Erica hacks further. She’s completely ignored her sandwich, her dark eyes stuck to Derek's jaw, watching him chew.

She should eat that sandwich right now or Derek will eat it for her.

"I don’t know. Never?” he finally manages to cough out.  

"That’s a terrible plan.”

"It doesn’t sound that terrible to me,” he says before he even has time to reconsider the answer. The words surprise him. It's the way they sound, strong and sure. The realization that follows hits him right in the gut, so hard it's almost forcing the avocado bacon sandwich right out of innards.

It doesn't sound that terrible.

Derek has been fine with it. For a year Stiles has been this thing that he’d look up to every morning, this fantasy that haunted his mind at night. But there has always been a distance between him and the other boy. There’s always been this red line he wouldn’t cross, the line between reality and fantasy. In his fantasies Stiles is someone he could see himself falling in love with, the way they do in sappy 80’s rom-coms, the whole rose-colored-glasses shebang. In his head they could get married, adopt a dog named Andy and live in the suburbs with twenty kids.

But that’s simply the idea of him. That's something Derek has made up, something that he assumed and speculated about. That’s it. In reality Stiles is this guy who goes to the Prep School across from his High School, and he happens to have Derek as a tutor. Derek is fine with the way things are. Derek is fine with staying away.

"God, your face is doing it again.”

"What?”

"It looks like your brain is trying to talk itself out of something. Please don’t tell me you’re looking for an excuse to not make a move.”

"Shut up.”

 

♦︎

 

**Guess who scored a solid C on the chem test?!**

 

_You?_

 

**Rhetorical question Derek…**

**We’re celebrating :D**

 

_Why?_

 

**Because you are the awesomest tutor in the world!**

 

_Ok_

 

OK?! Why the hell did Derek just send that? Why the fucking hell - uuuuuuggghhhhhh.

Texting has never been a considerably difficult task for Derek. On the contrary, Derek loves texting. It’s so much easier than phone calls. You can keep your words short, leave a conversation whenever you like, and act like a dick because you have the excuse of the phone not being capable of ‘portraying sarcasm’, when you’re actually being dead serious. Texting is beautiful.

But texting Stiles is a nightmare. Derek types out these long, thoroughly thought through, witty sentences that he always reconsiders and judges. He mostly ends up shortening them to one single word.

'Ok' is borderline terrible. He has literally mutated into a caveman. The planets of the solar system have aligned, tectonic plates are being shifted into opposite directions, because it has finally happened.

Derek is accepting his horrendous fate. Derek is a caveman now.

 

**You sir, are coming over! There shall be video games and pizza!**

 

The last sentence makes his stomach churn. There have been spankbank fantasies starting with video games and pizza and ending in dirty, filthy, sweaty chaos. Derek doesn’t even trust himself with merely sitting on a sofa next to Stiles, holding a playstation controller. He can already feel the immediate awkward boners.

He hates his brain.

 

_Sounds like fun, but I have a lot of studying to do._

 

And Doctor Who.

 

**I knew you were going to pull the party pooper card! I wanted to ask if you could help me out with Algebra, so how about you study at my place and if I have any questions about my stuff I’ll ask you, and then we can do the video games and pizza thing :)**

 

Fuck. Derek can’t. Derek is trying incredibly hard to simply stay away. But staying away tends to get tricky, when the concentration of avoidance is practically luring him in. Then again, Derek offered to tutor the guy. This is happening.

 

_Alright_

 

**Awesome! See you at 4 ;)**

 

And there it is: the winky face. It's the emoticon Erica enjoys calling ‘the smiley face’s sexy twin brother’. Derek is afraid he’s embarrassingly over analyzing every little sign the universe is hurling into his face, because the smiley face’s sexy twin brother is making his brain think things, things he should not be thinking about, because - _Harvard._

 

♦︎

 

"Heyho.”

Stiles is lazily leaning in the doorway, his eyes a little droopy, his hair seemingly sleep disgruntled. How is someone capable of looking like a human meal without even wanting to look like a human meal? He literally looks like a hobo.

And Derek wants.

Stiles waves, the long sleeve of his sweater wiggling around as Derek walks up the gravel driveway. He's trying to crank down the volume of his heartbeat with each step, turning them into full on Hulk-stomps, letting them crunch the gravel into minuscule dust particles under the soles of his converse.

Smash. Calm down. Smash. Calm down. Smash. Calm down.

"Hi.”

"Before you come in, there’s a woman in my house. She’s Maria the cleaning lady. Just a heads up. She usually only comes in the mornings, but she’s here now. So, yeah. Scott thought she was a burglar the first time he came over. Shit went down,” he mentions, looking at a spot behind Derek’s shoulder, probably remembering things he doesn’t want to.

"Got it,” Derek replies, trying his best not to come in bodily contact with the boy as he squeezes past him through the narrow doorway.

"So, the test went well?”

"Dude! I kicked that test’s behind and straight into space. It’s up there right now.”

Stiles points towards the sky with the kind of proud grin that makes a fuzzy static rummage through Derek’s stomach.

"Sounds like one hell of an accomplishment,” Derek murmurs, scratching the back of his neck, deciding where to look.

Eyes? Mouth? Moles? Floor?

Floor.

"One hell of an accomplishment! Thanks to you!”

Derek feels like a 14 year old girl with UGGs and an unhealthy infatuation with pumpkin spice lattes. Boyd would probably smack him in the face if he were here.

 

♦︎

 

Derek has climbed up the ladder to Stiles’ room a few times now, and yet he tends to feel this odd sense of excitement tingling at the back of his neck with each squeak and creak the ladder makes under his shifting weight. Peeking through the trap door is like peeking into another dimension.

Some weird hipster indie music is flowing through the room. The tunes are calming. Derek actually likes the weird hipster indie music Stiles listens to.

He scrambles onto the red rug, splaying his fingers against the soft fuzz of the material. It’s warm, toasted by the floor heaters and the shard of sunlight peeking through the gap of a curtain.

"It’s way better when you’re high. I love this cuddly ol’ thing.”

Stiles is sprawled across the rug, right in the middle of a patch of sunlight. There’s a soft, warm glow leaking from the walls of the room, reflecting the colors of the paintings, and the pictures, and the bubble gum wrappers. It’s like sitting in a treasure chest while a ray of sunlight is peeking through the key hole.

Stiles rolls over, lazily reaching for a notepad and algebra book. Derek mirrors the movements, digs through his bag, pulling out his biochem homework.

It’s silent for while as the both of them settle into the rug and shuffle through stray paper and book pages. Derek wouldn’t call it a full blown awkward silence, but it feels a little close to uncomfortable.

Then again, Derek’s whole entire existence seems to be ruled by everything uncomfortable. He’s used to it, and yet he keeps on wanting to verbalize something, _anything_ at this point. But all his mind can come up with, is “hey, cool socks”. They’re electric blue and a painful nuisance in his peripheral vision.

Derek’s gaze flicks upward. He watches Stiles' eyebrows furrow in seemingly feverish concentration. Tiny dust particles are whirling around his hair, twirling in the patch of sunlight, dancing to the indie beats, a constant thump, thump, thump, synchronizing with the heaving of Derek's chest. He averts his gaze the second Stiles’ bourbon eyes flick up to meet his stare. There’s a mini explosion going on in his nervous system, waves of electric fizz causing his cheeks to burn up, because Derek is a 14 year old girl who wears UGGs and has an unhealthy infatuation with pumpkin spice lattes.

Derek pointedly stares at the biochem page, a white paper splattered with words he simply can’t elucidate. He’s on his fourth try at deciphering the first sentence, when he feels Stiles’ eyes burn through the side of his skull. The boy’s face flicks upward, then down, then back up, his hands scribbling across his notepad. Derek hopes he’s looking at something behind him, maybe a ripped out magazine paper hovering right behind his head.

Yeah. Probably.

But it doesn’t stop, because the next thing he knows Stiles is practically scorching Derek’s existence away with the mere thought of him of maybe staring at Derek. Derek doesn’t dare look up. It’s frustrating reading and rereading that first sentence. It turns into a bundle of gibberish that seems to be nothing but a chaotic patchwork of vowels and punctuations. It’s practically impossible to think about studying. Derek needs to snap out of it. Right now.

And then Ed Sheeran is belting through the speakers, pleading for Derek to give him love. That just does it. Derek looks up. Stiles is staring at him right in the face. It’s completely unapologetic, the way he holds his gaze, not breaking the eye contact, all hooded lids and parted lips. There’s a ballpoint pen sliding across the flush of his bottom lip. A kitten pink tongue peeks out and brushes over the lid. Stiles is smiling. And it’s not anything close to sweet. It’s provocation, a silent challenge. Derek’s breath hitches in his chest. He can’t keep himself from watching that tongue playing with that pen. He deliberately forces himself to look up, hoping that might be a little easier. Alluring bedroom eyes are definitely not easier. Stiles’ smile widens, quirks the slightest bit more to the right than to the left. Derek clears his throat, quickly lowering his eyes back to the jumble of black symbols sprawled across the piece of white paper in his lap.

He still can’t read. What the heck are words even?

Derek’s fingers are dangerously close to splitting his pen in half. He forcefully tries to listen to Ed shout his heart out. The rhythm of the chorus steadies the blood pumping organ in his chest, stopping it from letting the heat pool in his groin. The song fades to an end and melts into the next. It’s a happy upbeat tune that makes it increasingly difficult for Derek to think about dying puppies and Mrs. Buhler in a bikini. It’s incredibly hard to tame an awkward boner with terrifying thoughts, when someone starts singing about beach lovemaking and pina coladas.

It gets easier, though. After probably the longest forever in human history, Derek actually feels like he might be doing alright again. Stiles has stopped staring. The boy is just silently nibbling on the lid of his pen.

And then Stiles reaches for a granola bar.

Fucking hell.

Derek tries his absolute best to ignore the sounds the guy starts immersing himself into. He’s pretty sure he hears a soft groan somewhere in between the chorus and a precise description of the color shade of a pina colada. It’s a torture that goes on for about 45 minutes, because Stiles eats four. It seems to be somewhat of a languid, agonizing process that is ever so slightly melting Derek's brain into a puddle of gelatinous mush.

"Derek?” Stiles finally murmurs, his drowsy voice ripping through the progression of Derek trying to feverishly mold his brain back into its proper shape.

The struggle is real.

"Hm?” Because that’s pretty much all Derek can come up with when it comes to his half molded goo brain.

"Can you explain this question?”

Stiles shoves the book across the red fuzzy plane stretched out between them. There’s a caricature of a little guy, who’s probably supposed to be Stiles, pointing at a text box. The cartoon figure has an excruciating look smudged across his face, crouching in a puddle of tears. Derek snorts. It’s an incredibly good drawing.

He skims the question, which of course seems to take a little longer than usual, due to him trying to remember how normal people interpret the written word.

"Simplify each expression. Use only positive exponents,“ he explains, after an eternity of ‘shit, I wasn’t concentrating when I was reading that sentence! Now I have to read it again - ah, shit, again’.

Stiles moves closer until their shoulders bump. Derek doesn’t move. He hates how he goes completely frigid when people touch him without any sort of warning. Especially when it comes to Stiles. He never wants to immediately flinch away, the way his brain tells him to. He never wants to seem painfully obvious about it. Derek usually waits a few moments before he subtly and casually leans away from the contact.

Derek is a wonderfully awkward human being.

Stiles is incredibly close. His whole entire arm is pressed against Derek’s while they both crouch over the book.

"Huh. Okay, that makes sense.”

Stiles leans his head forward and starts squinting with his eyes, pondering on the thought. Derek is trying to casually rearrange himself to the right, but the heat is just too much to merely let go. Stiles is nothing but a flush warmth pressing into his side. It’s temperate like that one special spot you find around a bonfire, pleasant and harsh at the same time.

Derek stands up so fast Stiles flails onto the empty spot, flinging his hands onto the carpet.

"I - uh - need to go to the uh bathroom," he grumbles, his eyes looking at anything but Stiles.

"Oh. It’s  - it's over there."

Stiles gestures towards the white door covered by a life size Batman Begins poster. It sounds a little tense and the quizzical look he’s giving Derek makes him feel even more horrifyingly awkward than he already is.

 

♦︎

 

The atmosphere eventually reaches the lightness of their usual study sessions. Probably because Stiles starts to actually study. He stops staring, occasionally asks a question, but doesn’t come any closer than just a few inches. Derek can handle a few inches. Derek even gets past that dreadful first sentence. The boy doesn’t stop gnawing on the pen, though. It’s as if he continues doing it unknowingly, not bothered by the sloppy sounds that occasionally slip past his lips. Derek notices the way he follows the ray of sun that travels across the room in a languid pace like a moving spotlight. Stiles reminds Derek of a cat, the way he crawls across the rug, following each and every position of the patch of light, until he’s pressed against the side of the piano, his mouth working its way around the lid of the pen, his eyes flicking from left to right, flying across the page of his text book. Derek lowers his notes and just watches. There’s an unintentional beauty about it. The way he’s not putting on a show, just lost in the simplicity of disregard.

Derek doesn’t get past the second sentence of his biochem paper.

 

♦︎

 

"I give up.”

Stiles is lying on the ridiculously gigantic sofa in the living room, lazily lapping at a salami sliding off his pizza slice.

"Really? You weren’t even trying,” Derek counters, fiddling around with his controller, making his moon elf smash his valja through Stiles’ mage’s face. Stiles smacks a stray pillow against the back of his head.

"Dude! I was eating!”

"You said you give up.”

"Yeah, that’s the universal code for people to stop right there, not kill their opponent’s mage. I mean come on. Sword in the face? Really?”

"I like to stay classy.”

_I like to stay classy?!_

Derek has been spending the last three hours constructing marvelously brilliant sentences in his brain that just won’t come out the way they should. Probably because reality distorts his prodigious genius.

Stiles snorts around a mouth full of cold pizza.

"Yeah, I’ll say,” he mumbles, an undertone swaying with his words that Derek can’t decode. He averts his attention from the TV and glimpses at the dark haired boy snuggled between a mountain pillows, practically drowning in the material of that colossal sweater of his. He’s staring at his hands, fidgeting with the hems of the clothing article. Derek has seen him do that a lot. It looks thoughtful in way, as if he’s internally discussing pros and cons of something Derek can’t hear. That’s what it looks like anyway.

He clears his throat.

"It’s almost ten. I should go,” he manages to verbalize, sounding like a caveman. Again, reality is doing him no favors whatsoever.

Derek hadn’t noticed the way the time had slipped right through his fingers. He’d been so concentrated on having actual, genuine fun with someone who isn’t part of his tiny circle friends, family of insane females - or his grandpa Ted. Playing video games and eating pizza with Stiles is something that makes Derek feel content. It’s an odd mixture of the kind of pleasant comfort you feel when you might be getting the slightest bit used to something, and the kind of exhilarating excitement that hums through your bones when you feel like you’re about to free fall. Stiles is that in-between. And in Derek’s life of all things awkward and weird, it - for whatever the reason - feels fitting. Stiles just fits somehow.

"It’s ten already?! Wow that went fast!” Stiles scrunches up his nose in a usual quizzical manner that makes him look like he's just about to sneeze.

"Well then.”

Stiles slumps his arms onto the two pillows resting against his sides and heaves himself out of the leather. There’s nothing but silence as they walk down the maze of hallways leading towards the entry hall, out the door, and along the gravel drive way towards Derek’s bike. It’s embarrassing how throughout the course of their brief ‘sessions’ Derek has created this database of all recorded silences that have ever existed between the two of them. It’s a short list, but it seems to be constantly growing.

There’s the looming-silence that usually happens when it’s obvious that neither one of them are capable of coming up with anything useful to say, then there’s the light’n-easy-silence where they’re both immersed in whatever the hell they’re doing and Derek doesn’t have the urge to fill it with stupid comments about socks, there’s the granola-bar-silence that makes Derek want to ferociously gauge his eyeballs out and stuff his ears with styrofoam, and there’s the sort-of-comfy-silence, where they’re both trying to simply leave it alone, because it feels too pleasant to disrupt - and then there’s this other-silence. It's the kind of silence that Derek doesn’t understand yet, the silence he can’t seem to give a name to. It’s like static and white noise and this significant _other_ thing that Derek can’t pin down. It’s deep and heavy and seeps through the air like a thick fog, until it burns through his bloodstream, scorching him with its hot fever.

Stiles has an unlit cigarette clamped between his lips. He looks up at Derek. And there it is, that intentional, fiery gaze that makes him feel like he’s being flung into space and hurled right back again, and again, and again, until all he can feel is that blazing whiplash buzzing through his bones and all he can see is rich bourbon whiskey. It's the kind his grandpa Ted drinks on Sunday nights, sun-kissed bronze and golden amber in the glow of the cheap electric fireplace. There’s a slight smoky smell drifting through the air. It mixes with the tang of sticky sweet Dr. Pepper and the lemon grass laundry detergent nestled into Derek’s scarf.

Stiles opens his mouth, his chest rising, filling his lungs with air. It almost seems like he's about to say something. He doesn’t. He simply exhales.

It’s silent. It’s that _other_ silence, heady and imminently present.

And Derek can’t handle any of it. He can’t handle the way Stiles looks under the fading glow of the street lanterns. It’s sort of freaking beautiful. It makes Derek want to forget his whole entire life, his whole plan. Because for a brief moment, he wants to completely disregard the ‘staying away’. He wants to heave Stiles onto the back of his bike and ride into the sunrise and further, further, further until they leave the world behind and reach fucking oblivion and everything and nothing beyond infinity.

But Derek is simply Derek. 'Simply Derek' is going to clear his throat, choke out a “have a nice weekend”, fling himself over his bike and whip his feet into the pedals until he’s home. 'Simply Derek' is going to be exhausted, sweaty and haunted by the pain of regret.

And that’s exactly what Derek does, because Derek is simply Derek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fangirl by Rainbow Rowell! Read it! Read it, read it, read it! It's a "nerd power ballad destined for greatness". This woman is like my spirit animal!


	5. Chest Riots & Polish Mysteries

"Derek, tone it down! Jeez, kid! You’re literally injuring half of the team!“ Coach’s voice booms across the court. Derek distantly acknowledges the words that seem to be nothing but a hoarse echo rippling through the walls of his skull. The ball in his hand is firm underneath his bouncing grip. He throws himself into the rapid rhythm of _ball, floor, ball, floor, ball, floor_. The snapping sounds of the impacts become his world as he dribbles and shoves his way across the polished wood. He's distantly aware of the dark smudges in his peripheral vision, but all he can see crystal clear is the net and it's calling his fucking name. 

Derek is literally fuming. There is metaphorical steam blazing through his ears, a sound that morphs with the rush of the adrenaline as he races towards the finish line. He reflexively darts around the other players, disregarding any of his teammates, mauling down whoever dares come into a three feet proximity. Derek is a raging, blazing ball of freaking fury. It feels like his soles are on fire, the heat simmering through his skin, scorching his insides. He hurls himself into the air. A guttural sound climbs through his throat as the muscles in his arms tense and extend. He reaches out. 

The world stops. 

Derek sees the creases and ripples of the orange basketball, the veins bulging across the surface of his arm, branching out into his hand and fingers. He bites down onto his bottom lip, until all he can feel is the pain, a bright white flash blurring his vision. 

Derek dunks the ball. He hears it whoosh through the net when his fingers finally release. He curls his hands into the metal rim of the net, feeling that tiny moment of exhilarated weightlessness, forgetting gravity for that blip of a heartbeat until the weight of the passing momentum pulls his body back down. A loud thump pulsates through his feet and rapidly works its way up his legs, his torso, his chest, his arms. It’s like getting struck by lightning. It’s fast and harsh and all Derek can see is blazing white. All he can hear is the static of adrenaline surging through his ear canal.

Joshua has a kid. He’s a dad. Again. Actually, he’s a dad for the first time. Derek grew up without a dad.

Joshua has a fucking kid. 

"What the hell, Derek?!“ Simon’s screeching voice hurdles him back into human consciousness. "There’s a reason for why it’s called a freaking team!“

"26! Bench! Now!“ 

Derek grinds his teeth, hoping the pressure will stop him from down right growling. He lifts his head. Boyd and Isaac are both standing on the other side of the court, furrowing their eyebrows in concern. Erica’s most probably going to call an emergency basement crisis meeting. He just knows it. The stray basketball rolls towards his feet, bumping against his sneakers, and Derek doesn’t even hold back the urge to pick it up and slam it against the polished wood, not even paying attention to where it bounces against. There’s a loud bang that makes the whole court tremble. It probably hit the roof.

"Cool it!“ Coach yells. Derek is so, so close to freaking kicking that man right in the nuts. His eyes flick upward towards the stands. There’s someone sitting in the far corner. It's nothing but a dark blob he can’t really make out. The person hadn’t been there when practice had started. Derek squints his eyes. It’s a boy. The boy is looking straight at him. He's waving. 

Great. Stiles just witnessed Derek’s bitchy freak out session. Just super duper great. 

 

♦︎

 

"Hey.“ 

Stiles is leaning against the wall next to entrance of the school gym, a usual cigarette hanging from his lips. He’s in his school uniform, tight collared shirt, green tie, black coat and pants that just fit him in all the right ways. If Derek weren’t too busy hating the world for coach sending him home early, he’d actually stop for a moment and simply admire the beautiful human being with perfectly presentable, disheveled hair. 

"Damn. You we’re like a freaking beast in there.“ 

Derek tries to ignore the wonder swaying with his words. 

"You can’t smoke on school grounds.“

Rage turns Derek into a vicious rule enforcer. Stiles simply lets a bubbly laugh hum across his lips before he flicks the cigarette stub onto the pavement and crushes it with the sole of his polished shoe. The scraping seems to be the only sound Derek is capable of hearing. It’s all he wants to hear. The harsh sound of the filter being crushed and ground into the gravel of the pavement.

"What’s got your knickers in a twist?“ Stiles questions in a terrible English accent. The boy lifts balled fists to his face and stretches his index fingers over his eyebrows in an exaggerated “v“. He scrunches up his face, in what’s apparently supposed to portray anger. It actually makes Derek laugh. He knows he probably looks like a murderous serial killer. The tension in Stiles’ face immediately recedes at Derek’s - totally unwanted - response and he smiles. A sort - of - comfy silence follows. 

Derek averts his returning glare towards the floor, hoping the pavement is capable of coping the heat of his bitch scowl. Also, Stiles’ Bambi eyes aren’t really something that would induce a calm state of relaxation. They’d probably just cause a full blown riot to rage in his chest.

"You don’t have to tell me. I get it.“ 

Stiles' feet start shuffling across the ground, the polished surface of his shoes reflecting the dim glow of the cloudy evening sky. Derek knows that’s a clear sign of him getting antsy. He’s probably trying to be careful, not wanting to rush into a conversation as long as Derek’s not prepared. The thought of it, seems kind of nice. Well, the assumed thought. Derek’s going to roll with that assumption. It's a nice assumption.

He swallows the chunk of fury back down into his abdomen, hoping it won’t tear its way back out, for the next few minutes. 

"How did you even get in? The doors to the stands are locked.“ 

Because that’s all Derek can up with. He’s not the kind of person who’s mastered effortless conversational entrances yet. Derek is actually pretty confident in the fact that he won’t ever achieve any sort of finesse in any part of his life. 

"Well, I’m a smooth criminal and also incredibly charming. Ben the security guard and I are totally hitting it off,“ Stiles casually mentions with a husky undertone that makes that supposedly averted riot grunt and shove beneath Derek’s ribs. And when Stiles shoots Derek one of those beaming, dreamy smiles of his, the riot is a full blown pounding mass of kicking and screaming. It’s all sorts of frustrating having to suppress the pent up anger and _that_. Derek promptly avoids the piercing look Stiles is practically blasting towards him. He tentatively walks towards the parking lot, waiting for the boy to catch up. He can feel those dark honey eyes scorching the back of his jersey. Derek really can’t handle Stiles’ signals right now. That’s what he’s decided to call the staring, and the smiling, and the touching, and the complimenting. There’s a probability that it’s all unintentional, because that kid has mastered the whole charming cavalier thing. But it’s confusing Derek to the extent, that he’ll lie awake in bed for an hour straight every night, interpreting each and every flick and twitch of those fucking smiles, until he's pretty close to considering the possibility of him mutating into a fourteen year old girl with UGGs and an unhealthy infatuation with pumpkin spice lattes. He really needs a shorter term for that. He can’t keep on calling it that stereotypical monstrosity in his head.

He’ll call it Katelyn. Yeah. Derek’s turning into a Katelyn.

"So, what’s up?“ Derek tries to ask as casual as the chest riot will let him. It’s as if Derek just gave Stiles the greenest lights of all green lights, because the boy starts babbling in a way that makes Derek's head spin from the rapid exchange of letters, punctuations and interpretations.

"Yeah. So - um - like the first exams are coming up in a few weeks and I really need to get some studying going on. I know that you’re super busy with studying yourself, because your exams are coming up as well and you've got loads of other kids to tutor, and books to read, and whatever the heck you do in your obviously very limited, very sparse spare time. The thing is, I can’t study unless it’s with you. So, I know it’s my own fault and everything, you know, for bumming around, but I want to nail those exams right in the ass. No, I mean - you know what I mean. Wow. That sounded a lot less weird in my head. Anyways. Look, I  just need to get past senior year. I barely passed sophomore. So, here’s the crazy question I wanted to ask you," Stiles takes in a deep, deep breath. Derek snaps his eyes away from the sight of the buttons of his shirt barely managing to cope with the sudden stretch of material. 

"Could you maybe help me out until the exam week starts, like longer and more often than last week? Only for a few weeks until I get back on track. I know that's a lot and I swear to god, I will pay you double and -"

"Sure.“

"Like, I will seriously - wait what?“

Stiles is giving Derek quite the skeptical look, as if he hadn’t expected anything to be that easy. Derek would be giving himself the exact same look. He would be fucking stabbing it into his face, because why did he just agree to this? 

It’s as if Derek’s brain can’t grasp the definition of "stay away". Stiles is literally engulfed by monstrous neon LED warning lights and Derek just blurts out a "Oh yeah, sure! Why not?".

It’s out there now. Derek can’t take it back. He wishes the universe had a reverse switch. 

"So, you’ll help me out?" Stiles asks, a gleam of hope in his auburn eyes. It makes him look so much younger than he is, so much more fragile.

_Help._

Derek is rocketed back to “the night of the Banjaxed“. Stiles is slumped in his bathtub, tears whirling down the drain, mixed with toxic water and drunken confessions. Derek had told himself he’d wanted to make things right. He wanted to help this kid get on the right track. Derek is the kind of person who keeps his word, even if it's a mere promise to himself. 

"Yeah,“ he decides. “Yeah.“

Stiles' features relax into one of those small smiles that aren’t fully smiles. The corner of the lips are being tugged ever so slightly, a barely unnoticeable fondness in his eyes. It’s the kind of hint that makes Derek want to see it turn into those full fledged grins. He wants to see those crinkled eyes and those bright teeth. He wants to see the warmth and the openness. 

"Awesome. Thanks.“ It’s quiet, a little softer than his usual boisterous voice that Derek can regularly hear from across the parking lot. It’s a big parking lot, but it currently feels incredibly crammed, a suffocating tightness squeezing his limbs. 

Stiles stops. Derek tries very hard to just keep on walking, but his feet won’t listen to any signals his brain is sending down into his synapses. 

"You know what you need?“

Derek turns around and cocks an eyebrow.

"What?“

"You look like you’re about _this_ close to bashing someone's face in and my face is too pretty to be smashed.“ 

Stiles digs his hands into the pockets of his coat, a sharp whip of cool air cutting through the space between them.

"You need to be distracted. Trust me! I’m an expert. You need to walk it out and then you need shower all that rage off of your face.“ 

He points at Derek’s head and starts flinging his hands in the air, wiggling them like they’re made out of pudding.  

"Walk it out,“ Derek repeats, emphasizing each word with a thoughtful scowl. Derek’s almost proud that his scowls can mirror all sorts of emotional processes. 

"Yeah! With me! I’ll help you walk it out. I am the best distraction out there,“ the boy implies, jerking his eyebrows up and down in a way that makes Derek want to blurt out another laugh. But he’s trying his best to stay pissed off at the world, because he’s a super mature adult.

"And after that rage scrubbing shower, you need to put on the most baggiest things you can find and just eat your heart out. My stuff wouldn’t fit you in a million years, because you know, you’re like -" 

Stiles gestures towards Derek, his eyes scanning him from the toes up. Derek's pulse turns into a sledgehammer. He wishes he could melt into the pavement below his feet. 

"We’ll walk you out to your place,“ Stiles proposes. 

And then it’s there. The hint of a smile is flexed upward, his teeth peek out between his lips, and his eyes start to scrunch at the edges. The beaming glow of its presence is drowning the parking lot in the warmest shade of gold, and sun - kissed apricot, and every tint of pleasant delight, and -  

_Shut your face, Katelyn!_

"Boyd was gonna give me a ride, but I mean I guess we could - " Derek starts a little hesitant, but Stiles is already running across the parking lot, jumping around, his hand waving in the air signaling Derek to follow. 

Derek lets out a muffled chuckle.

"Come on Derek! Let’s get yo strut on!“

This kid.

 

♦︎

 

The 45 minute walk to Derek’s house is filled with nothing but distractions, because Stiles is the literal embodiment of 'distraction'. He talks and talks and Derek’s brain doesn’t even have the time to concentrate on anything else but his constantly moving mouth and his bright Bambi eyes. He cackles at his own jokes and stumbles across his words more than once. It’s wonderful in a way. Derek doesn’t say anything but a few little comments. He just watches, listens and lets the distraction sink in. He lets Stiles push away all the anger and the biting irritation. For a while it’s just autumn eyes and damp concrete roads.

Stiles babbles about English class and how a guy got caught smoking in the girl's bathroom. He talks about Scott being helplessly in love with a girl named Allison and how they’re working on a plan to bring them together. Stiles mutters about how he recently read an article about Hong Kong students fighting for a democratic system and spends about ten minutes trying to convince Derek of the multiverse theory and the probability of them being Batman out there. 

"It’s totally possible! The universe is huge! I mean aliens most definitely exist. Of course they’re not aliens, but intelligent species, just like us. What if they're more advanced than us? What if they wanted to contact us? Nah. Homo sapiens are a dickwad race. I’m sorta ashamed of us. I mean - whoah. You really do live in the middle of nowhere.“ 

Stiles stops in his tracks and lets his eyes roam the dark exterior of the Hale house. 

"No offense, but you literally look like you’d live in a place that looks like it belongs to the Adam’s family. I bet you were the creepiest kid.“ 

Derek bumps his shoulder against his. He freezes. That was the first time he has touched Stiles. Willingly, knowingly, _teasingly_. Derek’s brain starts to rewire and all he can think is “holy shit, holy shit, holy shit“. His face starts heating up. It's the kind of warmth that accumulates in his hair line and prickles downwards over his nose, his cheeks, his mouth and down his neck. It had felt so easy, almost natural. 

And that is incredibly dangerous. 

Stiles is smiling, still captivated by the haunting demeanor of his house. He probably didn’t even notice the nudge or the way Derek’s chest riot is ratcheting up again.

"Well -" Derek clears his throat. "Thanks for the 'walking off'.“ 

Stiles swirls around, the sides of his coat flapping with the motion. 

"Pas de problèm! Any time.“ 

There’s a slight hesitation in his stance.

How is he going to get home? Stiles’ car is a 45 minute walk away from here. 

"I can walk back. I like walking,“ Stiles mentions, as if he read the question right off of Derek’s face. 

Derek nods. He bites his bottom lip, not sure of what to do next. Leaving Stiles’ house after tutor sessions is never complicated, but this feels different. 

A wave? A fist bump?!

"Alrighty. I’ll uh - go then.“ 

Stiles ruffles a hand through the messy strands of his hair. He gives Derek a quick quirk of the right corner of his lips, a silent “see you later“ and then he’s walking back down the concrete road, his shoulders slumped, his shoes taking languid little footsteps. 

Ah, crap.

"Stiles!“ Derek calls. 

The boy practically whips around, his eyes glinting with that childish eagerness. Derek internally throws every known obscenity towards his brain, because he can’t just let him walk all the way back. He can’t.

"You want to stay for dinner? My mom has the night shift at the hospital. She could drop you off later.“

Stiles grins and walks back towards him, a slight skipping rhythm shuffling with each step. 

 

♦︎

 

The second the front door opens, Derek feels the slightest bit of tension leave his shoulders. Home is the only place in the world that makes Derek feel relaxed. Chest riots and balls of rage tone down to a dull nuisance. "Wow. I was expecting skeleton chandeliers and cobwebs.“

Stiles is shrugging off his coat. Derek catches himself staring at the way his shirt tightens around his chest, flexing with each movement of his muscles. 

"Mom got rid of them last year, said we needed to start being normal,“ Derek murmurs. Stiles' eyes flick up and a surprised expression lights up across his face. There’s a moment of silence before a ringing giggle bubbles through the narrow hallway.

"See, there we go! Get some funny up in there!“

He points at Derek’s forehead. Derek snorts. 

Stiles tentatively moves down the hallway, his eyes skimming the walls of family photos scattered across the crimson colored tapestry. He lets lose a few chuckles and held back laughter. Stiles stops at a particularly horrible picture of Derek at 13, a time he'd proudly sported Bieber hair and braces. Derek has tried his absolute best to convince his mother of taking it down, but Talia is incredibly stubborn. 

"Holy shit, that’s adorable. I mean puberty really whipped out the big guns. Literally.“ Stiles mumbles the last word. Derek feels heat _everywhere_. 

The next picture that catches the boy’s attention is the recent Hale family photo they took on their front porch. It had been one of the terrible ones, in which everyone seems to be doing anything but pose for the camera. His mom likes to call it “the blooper“. 

Grandpa Ted is batting a fly out of face, a horrified expression distorting his wrinkly visage (he’d been trying to let a sneeze out). Laura and Cora are gracing the world with shit - eating grins. Derek’s younger sister is trying to climb onto his shoulders, Laura is pinching his cheek, all the while Derek’s hand is squished against the side of her face trying to ward her off. Derek’s eyebrows indicate that he’s about to commit a double homicide. Talia on the other hand, is in the middle of a hysterical laughing fit, splaying out her arms towards the others, presenting the wonderful chaos that is the Hale family. 

"So, that’s your family.“ 

It’s more of a realization than a question.

"Yeah.“ 

Stiles turns towards him. Derek notices the affectionate hint in his toothy grin. He starts strolling down the hallway, pacing backwards, all the while his eyes scanning the rest of the portraits. 

"They look really nice,“ he mumbles. The words don’t sound forced, like the way you say someone’s sweater is nice, because you don’t know what else to say and feel like a random compliment is the only way to fill the silence. The way Stiles says it seems sincere. It's somewhere lost between an acknowledgment and a confession. It sounds truthful. 

Stiles walks a few more steps across the creaky floor boards before he slowly turns around - and walks straight into grandpa Ted. A hoarse “Jumpin’ jahosafat!“ and a ringing “Holy Mary - Mother of Jesus.“ rattle through the narrow hallway. Grandpa Ted is clutching at his chest, his glasses sitting a little more crooked on the top his nose.

"Well. My middle name’s Ted.“ 

Derek watches as Stiles eyes go wide, his mouth moving, but not being capable of coaxing out a single word. 

_Here we go_ , Derek thinks. But then a slow grin advances onto Stiles’ face and what happens next is utterly implausible. 

"In Judah my people simply call me 'Stiles'.“

"Don’t take this the wrong way, but your Jewish kingdom seems to give quite the ludicrous names. How do you do, Stiles.“

"Yes ludicrous, but not as bizarre as people not mentioning the part about the mother of Jesus sporting an impeccably well trimmed beard. It’s a pleasure to meet you Mary Ted.“ 

"Just Ted. Just Stiles?“

"Just Stiles. My real name is an unpronounceable Polish Mystery.“ 

"So is mine.“

"I didn’t know Derek was Polish.“

"He isn’t.“

"But you are?“

"No. Just Ted.“ 

"Well, that makes it so much easier. Just Ted then.“

Grandpa Ted extends his hand and Stiles shakes it. Ted doesn’t even flinch (flinching is a clear indication that the handshake he’s receiving is coming from a “sissy“). Stiles is giving him one of the biggest smiles he has to offer and grandpa Ted is grumbling out a small laugh. Derek is awestruck. None of his friends have ever been capable of making his grandpa laugh. Then again, neither of his friends have been capable of keeping a conversation going without having to pause and ponder about their answer for half an eternity. 

_What is going on?_

"Where are the girls?“ Derek asks. He simply needs to make the weirdness of this all, a little less weird. 

"Shopping for dinner. Your mother says she’s feeling like lasagna today.“

"Grandpa, it’s "she’s feeling like making lasagna"."

"That’s what I said! People can feel like lasagna if they enjoy feeling like lasagna!" grandpa Ted mutters, in his usual kids - these - days - have - no - idea voice. Because Derek doesn’t. He really doesn’t.

Stiles is laughing, as if he can’t believe what the hell is going on, but he’s enjoying it somehow. 

Grandpa Ted is a person Derek can’t simply fling at someone. He’s the eccentric fruitcake of his family of crackpots. If Derek’s being completely honest, his whole entire family is a bit of a handful. But by the looks of it, Stiles might be capable of coping. 

"Alright. Well, um -" Derek starts, but is hastily shushed by grandpa Ted’s wrinkly finger wiggling through the air.

"Stiles. Are you a fan of food?“ he asks, causing the boy to let another surprised giggle tumble through the hallway.

"Ted. That must be a trick question.“

"Well then, I must show you the contraption I’ve built in the refrigerator. It is simply ingenious!“

_Great._

"That sounds delightful, sir!“

_Great._

Grandpa Ted swiftly cleans his glasses with the hem of his shirt then marches towards the kitchen, whistling some bizarre tune that seems to consist of nothing but random notes jumbled together. Derek sighs and gives Stiles an apologetic look, but the guy looks absolutely ecstatic. 

"Dude! You’re grandpa is so weird! I love weird!“ he whispers, all the while grinning like an idiot. „Go take that anti rage shower! I’ll check out whatever the heck is in the fridge.“

"You sure? My grandpa’s a little different and I mean -"

"Dude, go!" Stiles persists, batting his hands in a shooing motion. Derek can’t believe Stiles actually wants to hang out with his grandpa. 

How is this real life?

"I like different,“ Stiles mentions when Derek reaches the staircase. It sounds amused, but it’s fond in a way. Derek can’t help the inkling of it not being merely about his kooky grandpa.

 

♦︎

 

Metaphorically scrubbing off the rage from his face is not as easy as it sounds. The second Derek is standing under the trickling shower head, all he can think about is the man living half across the country. A man who was supposed to pick up Derek after his first day of preschool. His dad hadn’t picked him up the way he’d promised him. In the end he’d moved to Iowa and married some Interior Decorator. Stacey or Tina. The name is something short, something utterly forgettable.

Now they have a child. Derek feels utterly selfish being jealous of an infant. But that infant is going to grow up with a dad. A dad who’ll pick him up from his first day of preschool. 

Derek hates turning it all into some sob story. That’s the way life is in the end. It smacks you in the face and you deal with it. You have to get back up. And yet, he can’t help the frustrating anger boil dark in his gut whenever he thinks of his mother telling him “He said he felt like he was being suffocated“. That’s code word for "He wasn’t ready for a family". 

But now he is. Apparently. 

And it really shouldn’t be something that should make Derek this furious. He should be happy for a man finding his place in life, for finding new love and creating a new identity. That’s super great. 

Except, Derek has this feeling of wanting to hold this grudge, of wanting revenge of some sort. 

It's this irate little thing digging its way out of the big ditch in his brain, that he uses to suffocate everything he doesn't want to remember. This little worm of wrath is wiggling its way out of its confinement and burrowing itself into Derek's stomach like a parasite. 

He can’t help the shameful wanting for that man to be lonely forever. He wants him to feel the hurt and the pain that he felt when his father just disappeared from the face of the earth

But those are just the impulsive thoughts of a six year old. Derek’s 18 now. He needs to deal with it. He needs to get back up.

Derek doesn’t notice how hot the water had been running, until he steps out of the shower. The air is icy cold and slices across the planes of his skin. In a way it really does feel like he just scorched the fury down into something bearable. Derek can deal with bearable. 

He wraps a towel around his torso and pads towards the bathroom door. He needs to unclog his lungs from the foggy condensation. Derek steps out into his room, letting the crisp air cool him down just a little more, letting it freeze the simmering heat on his skin. 

He catches movement from the corner of his eye, a shadow hovering next to his bookshelf. 

Stiles is staring at Derek. Derek is staring at Stiles. 

Derek is aware of the fact that he’s half naked and almost smacks himself right then and there, because - _spankbank fantasies_. It’s as if the heat of his skin instantly retaliates against the cold. There’s a hot fever lingering in the air, bright red and furious. No one breaks the eye contact. It’s as if it’s the only thing keeping the heat right there, but Derek doesn’t want to let it go. All he can see are big brown eyes and tender lips, moist in the light of the bedroom lamp. The way Stiles is looking at him is better than any fantasy and so much more horrifying. 

"We’re home!“

The voice of his mother booms through the hallway. Everything moves too fast for Derek to grasp. Stiles opens his mouth.

“Uh - I was just -“ he quavers before a book in his hand flings itself into the air and he flails after it, his arms thrashing, lurching forward to catch it. It’s an eternal moment of limbs bashing. The book lands onto the floor with a loud thump. Stiles' eyes flick downwards, then up, then scorch Derek’s eyeballs out. 

"I’m jus - I’ll let you," Stiles coughs, "hange and everything. You know, I’ll be - uh - there. Out there. Outside. On the outside of your room - yeah, so your door. It’s a really nice door by the way. Is that oak?“ he babbles, his eyes darting around the room, hesitating on Derek's stomach, then on Derek's face before going back to flitting across the crammed space of the four walls.

"So. Yeah. I’ll leave you to it. The whole un-naked-ing part.“ 

And with that, the boy paces out of his room. Derek needs a moment. That moment turns into a long process of analyzation and internal disputes, because Derek’s the worst kind of thinker there is. 

Holy shit. 

Derek doesn’t know how to get his heartbeat in order, doesn’t even know how to breathe, because all he can think about is the elephant in the room. It' this colossal freaking mammoth of an elephant blankly staring right at him. 

Stiles just checked him out. Then again - like everything in Derek’s life - it’s open to interpretation. But that look, that fucking look in his eyes made Derek feel like he was two seconds away from hyper ventilating or combusting. He’s not sure yet. It was probably a dangerous mixture of both. 

There’s this other awareness, this smaller, barely noticeable prickling in the back of his head. It seems to be coming from a part of Derek that only materializes itself in his fantasies. It's coming from a place where he’s confident and bold and brash. There’s this tiny part of him that almost feels smug for catching Stiles off guard, for making him ramble and look at him that way. 

But Derek won’t ponder on it, because he shouldn’t care. He’s staying away from all that. Derek made a promise to himself. He's going to help this kid out. That's it. He's going to simply help him with one aspect of his affliction.

That’s all Derek is going to do. That's all Derek should be doing.   

He’s staying away. Katelyn can go suck it, because - _Harvard_.

"Oh, Jesus. Who the heck are you?“ A muffled voice echoes behind the door.

Laura. _Shit_. 

Derek internally kicks himself in the ass and stumbles across the room, rummaging through his closet, flinging on anything that looks large enough to be considered comfy, which is considerably difficult, due to Derek growing far too quickly for anything to stay comfortably baggy. The dull voices coming from outside his door become louder. Derek is praying to the heavens above Laura isn’t interrogating the poor guy. His older sister can be hair - raising. Especially during her menstruation cycle. Derek has experienced things. Horrible, horrible things.

With his arm half through the sleeves of his sweater, Derek hurls himself out of the room and into the hallway. 

Laura is laughing and Stiles is - swiftly staring at Derek’s abdomen, which forces him to pull his sweater down - a beaming ray of freaking sunshine. Derek has no idea of how Stiles has managed to make his sister laugh. The whole entire morning she’d been a raging menstrual mess of acrimony and bagel devouring. Their mother having told them about Joshua’s kid had been the freaking cherry on top. But her eyes are beaming and her grin looks jubilant, and Derek can’t help but want to thank Stiles for being the first person to make her laugh all day.

"Deedee, I like this stranger standing in our hallway,“ she says, ruffling Derek’s hair and disappearing into her room. 

"Deedee?“ Stiles practically shrieks. He starts laughing, his giggle making the whole foundation of the Hale house tremble.

"Shut up.“

"Deedee!“ he repeats, choking out the words under another wave of chuckles. Derek rolls his eyes and heads down to the kitchen.

"Never call me that. Ever.“ 

"Sure thing!“ Stiles shouts after him. „Deedee!“

 

♦︎

 

"Derek, Ted told me we have a Polish mystery from the far away kingdom of  Judah in our presence.“ 

Talia is standing in the middle of a chaos of shopping bags. Stiles hurries down the stairs and almost stumbles over a bag of milk cartons if Derek weren’t there to pull him back at the nape of his collar. 

"Yeah. That would be me. Stiles," the boy chokes, rearranging his collar. He tentatively tiptoes over bundles of carrots and Peanut Butter jars, extending his arm. Thalia smiles as she stretches away from the stove and shakes his fingers over the wide plane of groceries between them. 

"Nice to meet you, Stiles. I'm Talia.“

"Pleasure’s all mine. You must be one of Derek’s sisters,“ he mentions, a charming smile plastered onto his face. Derek chokes out a snort and starts bringing order to the grocery minefield exploding onto their kitchen tiles. Talia’s cheeks start flushing a bright red, her hands batting away in a silent “Oh stop it you“.

"Well, aren’t you quite the sweet talker.“ 

Stiles' smile widens and Derek wants to bluntly smack him in the face. 

"I hope you like lasagna!“

"Mrs. Hale, I live for lasagna!“ Stiles retorts with a theatrical tone swaying with his words. A small chuckle quivers out of Talia’s mouth. Derek shoots Stiles a warning glare, which the boy answers with a shit - eating grin. 

"Derek! Where the hell did you put my phone charger! I swear, if you don’t give it -"

Cora storms into the kitchen, almost slipping over a lonely orange rolling over the floor when she sees Stiles. Her furrowed Hale-brows loosen into a surprised expression. She starts laughing. Stiles start laughing. Their laughing becomes louder and louder, until they’re both immersed in some bizarre laughing fit, lighting up the kitchen like a freaking fireworks display. Talia’s eyes dart from Cora, to Stiles, to Derek. The spatula is limply hanging from her hand, her face distorted into a giant question mark.

"Dude. I knew I recognized you on those family photos!“ Stiles coughs, his words laced with left over blips of laughter. 

"Duuuuuude,“ Cora wheezes.

"Do you two know each other?“ Talia asks, her spatula flicking from left to right. Cora and Stiles whip around, both with heaving chests and bitten back laughter. 

"Uh - yeah. We - uh met during - “ Cora starts, giving Stiles a confused stare.

"We occasionally play -“ Stiles mumbles, his hand gesturing towards his chest, then hers, jerking it around in frantic movements. 

"Chess together!" Cora shouts. 

Because teenagers play chess in their free time for fun, and it isn’t the 21st century. Now Derek starts laughing. Cora shoots him a warning stinkeye. It simply coaxes out another flood of laughter.

"Chess,“ Talia repeats. "Alright. You know what? I’m going to pretend like that is completely normal and continue making the lasagna. Stiles are you a vegetarian?“

"Wha - ah. Well I - no. But I enjoy - "

"Thank god!“ 

And with that Talia dumps a whole chunk of ground beef into the pan. And then another.

"I raised a bunch of carnivores," she mentions, mashing the tip of the spatula into the mountain of meat simmering in the pan. " Could you set up the table in the meanwhile?“

"Sure thing, Mrs. Hale,“ Stiles answers, that fucking charm practically dripping from every word. Derek cocks an eyebrow at him, while trying to balance a tower of milk cartons against his chest. He’s opening the fridge when he hears a shriek of "No, Derek“. Something sharp jabs him right in the face. 

He groans, trying to blink away the red flash of pain fuzzing up his eyesight. 

"That’s the refrigerator contraption!“ Stiles flinches, his face scrunched up in shared agony. 

"Dad! What did I tell you about your inventions!“ Talia shouts, her voice thundering through the kitchen and out into the living room. She rummages through the freezer and pats a cool steak pack against Derek's burning cheek. Grandpa Ted stumbles into the kitchen, his slippers clashing against the stray jars of peanut butter, a wild look in his emerald eyes. 

"What do you think?“ he asks, eagerly scanning each of their faces for their reactions. 

"It hurts.“ 

"It’s fantastic!“ 

Derek and Cora reply at the same time. His little sister’s voice overtrumps his, with ear shattering joy. 

"Yes. Yes! Isn’t it?“ Ted exclaims, rearranging his crooked glasses. 

Derek stares at the grabber claw connected to some sort of spring attached to the back of the fridge. 

"See! You clamp anything between it. Milk or juice cartons! Every time you open the fridge it springs out and you can get what you need without having to bend down or rummage through the refrigerator! Now I’ll never sprain my back when I need my cider. You just need to watch out when you open it,“ grandpa Ted rambles, flinging his hands into the air, almost batting Cora in the face with his exuding excitement.  

Derek starts rubbing his cheek. You can never stay angry at this old guy.

"It’s great, grandpa.“ 

Derek smiles and hooks a milk carton into the grabber claw. It actually holds.

Grandpa Ted pats him on the back before settling onto one of the barstools, a triumphant beam on his face. 

"I knew you’d love it!“ 

 

♦︎

 

"Okay, what's going on? Don’t say chess, because come on. Cora, that was the worst excuse.“ 

Derek is staring at the two, who have been giving each other these knowing looks, followed by quiet little chuckles and hushed exchanges of words. Derek can’t help but feel the slightest bit of jealousy. They seem so easy around each other. That’s the kind of person Cora is. She fits to Stiles. Both of them are laid back and open. They don't seem to have a single care in the world. It’s like they’re completely in tune. They're on the exact same wave length without putting much effort into it. Derek wishes he were more like his little sister - or Stiles even. He wishes he could be so wonderfully effortless. It would make everything so much easier.

"What? You think we don’t play chess? That is absolutely condescending!“ 

Stiles leans his hip against the side of the table, crossing his arms. He's cocking an eyebrow into Derek's direction, practically challenging him to come up with a way to fight back. 

Derek can do that, because Derek actually plays chess. 

"Alright. Where are the rooks placed?“

"On the chess board. Obviously!“ 

Derek tugs his eyebrows together. 

"Fine," Cora sighs defeatedly. She’s giving Derek one of these careful looks, as if she knows that what she is about to say has a high probability of pissing him off. 

"We occasionally meet at - well, when we go out."

"As in you get wasted together?" Derek questions. He can’t wrap his head around the fact that his 16 year old little sister occasionally parties with Stiles Stilinski. Derek knows that the kids from Beacon Hills Preparatory Academy don’t merely party. They freaking worship inebriation. 

"Yeah, sometimes.“

"Sometimes," he repeats. 

What does that mean? _Sometimes._

"Jeez, Derek! Stop doing that."

"Doing what?“

"Interrogating me like you’re Detective Goren.“

"Relax, Deedee. No crazy stuff,“ Stiles reassures. The thing is, Stiles is the exact opposite of anything reassuring. And he just "Deedeed" him. Derek scowls at the silverware in his hands, squinting at the few scratches etched into the metal. He doesn’t want to picture Stiles and Cora going out together. He doesn't want to picture the dancing and the drinking and whatever the hell happens when people go out partying. That’s a whole entire world Derek has no idea about. It's a world he’s only ever heard of through Erica’s wild adventure tales of intoxication. The world of discos is a freaking mystery to him. Derek doesn’t even know if people say the word "disco" anymore. 80’s movies are distorting his reality. He keeps on picturing Cora doing the Gigolo on a technicolored dance floor and John Travolta swooshing in, twirling in sparkly, white boogie - attire.

"Derek, I have no idea how you could be related to that freaking party animal over there.“ 

Stiles points at Cora with a butter knife. Derek doesn’t know why he’s holding a butter knife. He never even knew they owned a butter knife. 

"Yeah. Me neither," Derek murmurs, straightening the forks around the table that Cora had so lovingly splayed into every angle possible.

"You’re coming with us next time!" 

His sister is draped across the sofa, the glow of the electric fire place brightening her amused grin.

"No," Derek grumbles at the bundle of napkins in his hand. 

"Aw! Come on big guy!" Stiles pleads, sitting on the couch next to Cora, their shoulders pressed against each other. It stings to see them like that. Derek doesn't like the way they're all casual and touchy. Never in his life has the green - eyed monster been this colossal. It’s always been about the little things when it had come to sibling jealousy, like who gets that new phone for Christmas, or who gets to eat the last piece of bacon. It’s never been about this. It's never been about a guy. 

The realization that Derek is currently jealous of his little sister having a friendly relationship with a boy he tutors, is earth shattering. The feeling carries the sort of heaviness that lingers. It means staying away is going to get a whole lot harder. Derek's life doesn't need to get more complicated. He hates complicated. 

"You better give up before you waste all your energy on trying," Laura sighs, walking into the room and hip checking Derek before making her way for the love seat. 

"Tell me about it,“ Derek murmurs to himself. 

 

♦︎

 

Dinner at the Hales always turns into a full hour and a half of chaos, arguments, laughter and gossip about the shitty employees at Timothy’s Bakery. This is definitely no exception, even though they try to tone it down at first with the “newcomer“ sitting at the table. It doesn’t last very long. It’s as if Stiles brings out the most rambunctious side of them. Grandpa Ted even snorts half of his apple cider up his nose with all the laughter he has going on. Everybody seems like they’re having some well deserved fun. Stiles makes that feeling bubble up so effortlessly, as if making people laugh is his part time job. He’s casual and gentle. 

Derek can’t look away. He simply watches Stiles giggle and ramble. He chuckles when the boy uses his fork as a spaceship and excessively compliments Talia’s culinary abilities. Stiles even goes as far as to calling her lasagna an “art form“. He seems utterly serious about it. 

Derek is happy to have someone at the table who won’t make them think about that man in Iowa. His mother looks content, a pleased smile constantly complementing her gleaming eyes. She doesn’t look as defeated as she had this morning. Neither of them do. Even though Talia wouldn’t admit it to anyone, Derek knows she still loves him. He can see it in the way she still has that tattered polaroid picture of him in her wallet and always checks to make sure it’s still there, or the way her eyes always turn into that dull shade of dry grass, whenever she speaks of him. 

She still loves that little part of him that’s just stuck with her. She still cherishes that tiny remnant of memory. Derek can’t imagine what she must be feeling. Anger? Disappointment? Bitterness?

Does she feel as vengeful as Derek does? 

 

♦︎

 

"You’re family is really something." 

Stiles is slipping his arms into the sleeves of his coat. Derek rubs a palm over his face, trying to ward off the wave of tiredness overcoming him. Stiles is a freaking feel - good - guru. Derek literally ate his heart out for dinner. There’s enough lasagna in his stomach to last a full fledged apocalypse. He’s drowsy and ready to flop into bed. 

"Yeah. They’re a little weird." 

"A little, but that’s not what I meant.“ Stiles straightens his back and digs his face into the collar of the material. "They’re really great. You’re lucky to have them.“

Stiles looks down as he taps the tips of his shoes together. 

"I wish I did,“ he mumbles. 

To Derek, his family seems absolutely ordinary, but it occurs to him that he might be taking it all for granted.  Stiles doesn’t have this. He probably doesn't have loud dinners and even louder sibling disputes, offbeat grandpas or chaotic moms. Stiles probably eats dinner in front of his computer, with no one to laugh at his jokes or lasagna art forms to compliment. 

Derek needs to stop reading into everything this guy says, or does, or does not do. It’s constantly messing with his brain. In a way he feels guilty for having all this. He wishes Stiles had this. He wishes he could be less lonely. And if the next thing he says has everything to do with that and nothing to do to with trying to be polite, then fine. Guilty as charged. 

"We should do the study thing at my house then. Also, I think my grandpa really likes you."

Stiles looks up, a rosy tint flushing his freckled cheeks. 

"Grandpa Ted doesn’t like a lot of people,“ Derek mentions, warming up at the small smile that is forming at the corners of the other boy’s mouth. 

"He’s a cool dude."

"Weird."

"But cool."

There’s a fleeting exchange of goofy smiles before Talia whirls into the hallway, her scrubs brushing on the portraits causing one of them to smack onto the ground. Derek blinks. He hastily looks away, not wanting that chest riot to start up again.

"Whoops! Derek, could you hang that back up? You ready, Stiles?“ Talia asks, hurriedly yanking her jacket from the coat rack.

"Yep!“

"I’ll drive the car out, bye! Sleep early!“ Thalia grins and jumps out the door. Derek has to clamp his teeth together in order to keep himself from whining a " _mom!"_. Derek’s a sophisticated, independent young man. He does what he wants. 

Stiles bites back a grin, extending an arm to scrub over the nape of his neck. 

"She forgot the 'Deedee'," he teases with an impish smile. There’s a gentle fondness about the way he says it that keeps Derek from rolling his eyes.

"Do you - do you feel better?“ Stiles asks hesitantly. Derek watches the way his eyebrows furrow just the slightest bit, a hint of tension stiffening his features. Derek thinks it almost gives the impression of worry. There’s nothing he should be worried about. Stiles really did distract him. 

"Yeah," Derek whispers. "Thanks to you."

Stiles' eyes skim his face. The gaze of amber eyes is gliding over his nose, his cheeks, his lips. They seem to hesitate. The furnace in Derek's chest starts radiating a frenzied heat. His skin prickles from the sensation of being so exposed. His face is so close to his, so readable. It’s worse than it had been when he’d been half naked with only a towel hanging from his hips. He’s closer now. Stiles is so close, Derek is able to admire the tiny dusted sprinkles of ivory and bisque in those bourbon eyes. The bright colors almost seem luminous, as if they're shining on their own accord. 

Derek could write a novel about those freaking eyes. 

"Hide your cigarettes."

Derek coughs, after pressing out the strangled words. He takes a large step back and points at the Marlboro packet poking out of one Stiles’ coat pockets. 

"My mom deals with lung cancer patients." 

It takes Stiles a while to react. He’s still unabashedly staring, and Derek feels like throwing him straight out of the door. The heat is killing him.

Stiles finally reaches into his pocket. He twirls the packet between his fingers, eyes it cautiously, before taking one of Derek’s wrists and rolling it into his palm. His fingers are warm and dry and Derek wants to hold onto to them, doesn’t want them to slip away. But they do. 

"Hiding won’t be necessary," the boy mumbles. Stiles winks as Derek watches his mouth flex into a wide grin. He turns, balancing his little twirl on the heel of his shoe and walking out the door with a sloppy salute. 

Derek’s pretty sure that wink short-circuited his brain, because Katelyn _can’t even_. She forgot how to freaking _even,_ because what _even?_

Derek quickly shuts the front door, pressing his forehead against the cool wood, sighing at the chilly sensation. There’s a stupid smile glued into place, due to Derek’s mind being all sorts of mushed. He needs a moment to cool off. 

After he hears the engine of the van humming through the air, he turns around. He straightens his posture and  gulps down as much air as his lungs can handle without bursting. 

Damn. 

Derek shakes his limbs in one quick giddy motion and turns towards the portrait lying on the carpet of the hallway all by its lonesome. He smiles once he has the cool wood of the frame resting in his palms. The smile widens when he sees Laura’s grumpy face scowling into the camera, while Cora and Derek are dunking an ice-cream cone onto her forehead, the sticky ice-cream dribbling down her suntanned skin. It had been during one of those summer vacations at the lake. The white color of Grandpa Ted’s trailer is visible in the background. Derek misses the old thing. Once he’d gotten his drivers license he’d drive there every weekend, just for a few hours, just for a few moments of absolute and utter silence. He’d lie on the creaky mattress inside of the trailer, windows open towards the lake, sun slicing through the thin curtains. He’d read, and read and read. It’s almost as if Derek had forgotten the place in the turbulence of growing up. It almost feels like Derek hasn't had time for himself in a very long time. All he's been doing lately is study and worry. All he's been thinking about is Harvard and all the challenges the future might hold. Derek doesn't remember the last time he'd felt completely at ease. He doesn't think he'll feel at ease in any time soon, not with this new person tumbling through his life, not with Stiles. 

Derek places the picture back onto the nail in the wall before he heads towards the kitchen. He tries his best to shrug off the unsettling feelings of worry clinging to his mind like vice grips. 

The girls are sitting at the kitchen island, hands wrapped around steaming mugs as they heatedly discuss the assholishness of cats. They used to have one, but the feline hadn’t been very fond of any of them really. Apparently cats aren’t their thing.

"Made you hot coco.“ Laura points at the microwave. 

"Do people still say 'hot coco'?“ Derek asks amusedly as he takes the mug from the turntable.

"Shut up! I do!“ 

Cora snorts into her mug and receives a cuff against the back of her head. She just grunts louder. Derek joins them, even though he feels like he could achieve the talent of falling asleep while standing. It’s nice to have some post dinner "hot coco" with theses two. 

"You okay, Der?"

Derek averts his gaze from the whirling steam trailing across the dark cocoa surface. He blows into his mug, watching the way the inside ripples, enjoying the steam rolling over the features of his face. He knows exactly what she’s aiming at. 

Derek has to doesn’t he? It’s too late. It’s already done. The kid is there. Joshua has a family.

"Yeah. I guess,"he mumbles after a stretched out silence. "I’m worried about mom." 

Laura nudges him against the shoulder, her eyes glowing a gentle emerald.

"She’s a Hale. We always get by." 

Her words seem soft and reassuring. Derek smiles.

"I still want to punch someone in the face!“ Cora hisses. There's a stiff tension in the way her grip tightens around her mug. 

"Tell me about it," Derek grumbles around the rim of his mug.

"We still have that piñata from my birthday!" Laura exclaims, gulping down the rest of the chocolate milk and slamming the cup onto the kitchen counter.  Her Hale-brows are looking exceptionally fierce. Cora doesn't hesitate to do the same and when Derek is still blatantly staring at the two of them, his little sister snatches his mug and tosses the innards down her throat. 

"I thought the reason for a piñata to exist at a birthday was for it be used." 

Derek gives Laura a pointed look. 

"Yeah, well I saved it. For this apparently,“ Laura exclaims with that fiery glint int her eyes. She stomps out of the kitchen waving a hand in the air. "Let’s blow shit up!“ she shouts from the back terrace. 

Derek is really, really exhausted. But if he has the chance to smash something repeatedly with a baseball bat, he will join. He will join the hell out of it. 

Cora throws the empty mugs into the dishwasher, all the while shooting Derek these knowing looks that make him feel a little more suspicious than usual. He even thinks he sees a smirk veiled behind her thick curtain of jet black locks. When Cora is about to head outside, she whips around and quirks an eyebrow. 

"You know, Der. You really shouldn’t be jealous. He’s not my type. Then again, I’m obviously not his either.“ 

She gives him a sly smile before racing out of the kitchen. 

Derek doesn’t want to admit it. He doesn’t want to acknowledge the fact that he’s currently incredibly, horrifyingly relieved. He shouldn’t be relieved, neither should he be jealous. The scariest part about it, might be the fact that he’d been painfully obvious about it.

Derek slams his palms against the surface of the kitchen island. He doesn't need this, because _this_ is down right dangerous. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. Stiles catching Derek topless is probably the biggest cliche in the Sterek book of frustrating sexual tension, but I needed some Stiles rambling and some flailing ಠ◡ಠ


	6. Celestial Epiphanies & Powder Rooms

The next two weeks go by in a flurry of coffee, sisterly teasing and tons, and tons of Stiles Stilinski. It’s a steady, comfortable rhythm they’ve fallen into. Stiles comes over after school, always stays for dinner and sometimes far past the post dinner "hot coco". It’s nice having someone in the house who can keep up with the way they work, with grandpa Ted's bizarre conversational skills, with Laura’s constant teasing, with Cora’s challenging dinner stand offs, or Talia’s somewhat chaotic over motherly motherliness. And if Derek’s being honest Stiles is someone who somehow "manages" him as well. The awkward cave mannish demeanor isn’t something just anybody can get used to. 

(Pretty much nobody) 

And maybe Derek gets better at handling Stiles. The charm, the audaciousness, the impulsiveness - and those smiles. God. Those fucking smiles. It gets particularly difficult when he throws his winks into the mix. Smiley - winks are the worst.

Obviously, Derek is still pretty far away from being an expert when it comes to the whole “handling“ part, but he’s gotten used to it. He's gotten used to Stiles and every part of him that subsequently makes up all that is Stiles. On some days he’ll be this jubilant rainbow kid spitting out gibberish a mile a minute and on others he’ll talk less, ask less, nibble on a pen and stare out of the window, his mind anywhere else but in the room. And then sometimes he’ll show up completely hung over or high (on weekdays). The inebriation mixes with the smell of his cologne and his guava hair gel, and all he’ll give Derek is a frown and deafening silence. On other days, Derek hates those days the most, Stiles will grace his features with his charming mega watt smiles and he’ll put on this gigantic show of being perfectly perfect, when his smiles never reach his eyes. Derek knows that’s when Stiles is at his worst. Those days mean he’s trying to hide. 

Stiles Stilinski is a freaking emotional roller coaster ride. He goes up and down and sideways and back. Derek can’t help but be shoved along for the ride. He’s being flung into the air, and slammed against the ground, and there’s lots and lots of free falling. All these parts of him are weighing Stiles down, making the ride reckless and unpredictable. Derek has the urge to break those walls the boy has built up around him and rip those parts out, smash them into little pieces. Derek wants to just make them disappear. 

But Derek can’t let himself get involved. Because all he is - and all he’d promised he’d be - is Stiles’ tutor. So he won’t put up a fight and make Stiles spill about his "feelings". He won’t tell Stiles how the drinking, and the smoking, and the drugs are probably going to be the end of him. He won’t tell Stiles that he wants to see him get better, because he cares about him more than he should. All Derek does is tell him to solve the Algebra equations. 

Like now, because the guy is fully immersed into one of his frustration tantrums. 

"Derek," Stiles muffles into the comforter of his bed. "Dereeeeeeeeek." 

The whining has been going on for about 20 minutes and there is only so much a guy can handle. Drama queens are situated right above Derek’s tolerance level. Derek flings a pencil at the boy who is currently trying to suffocate himself with one of his pillows. Thoroughly. Derek doesn’t think he’ll be capable of getting all that guava hair gel out of the material. Not that Derek doesn’t appreciate the wonderful things that concoction manages to do with that wonderful hair of Stiles, it’s just way nicer on his hair, not his pillow. Although Derek might be pushing away the thoughts of it turning him on for some weird, twisted reason.

He has bizarre fetishes. He’s not ready to accept them yet.

"Stiles, you can’t just give up now. You got the questions wrong a couple of times and that doesn’t mean -"

"A couple of times?! I got every fucking question wrong!" Stiles whines, turning his head to the side to let the words sound coherent before he squishes his face back into the pillow. Derek throws his eraser at his head.

"I hate math. I hate it. I hate it so much. I’m never going to get out of that exam alive. Never. I haaaate maaaath."

Derek sighs. It always takes him a million years for the boy to cool off when things go South. It’s an issue that Derek shares, because things tend to go on in Derek’s southern regions whenever Stiles is all wrapped up in _his_ sheets, rubbing himself all over _his_ covers, working that guava hair gel into _everything_. He watches the boy rearrange himself, pulling Derek’s covers over his head. Derek shouldn’t let him do that. He shouldn’t even let him touch his freaking bed, because every time he leaves, Derek practically mauls the comforter over. He ruts against his hands, his sheets and his pillows, until he’s red, raw and aching all over, yearning for Stiles, longing to rake his fingers through those dark strands of guava hair gelled hair and tug him down, down, down. 

That freaking mouth. 

Derek doesn’t think it’s good for his health - or for Harvard. It seems that studying has somehow become his second priority. And it shouldn’t. Derek knows it. He just can’t help it.

"I need a cigarette."

Derek watches the way his bed sheets start thrashing around in ridiculous movements like they're inhibited by some awkward ghost on LSD.

"No, you don’t."

"Yes, I do, mom!"

"You need a burger- son."

Shit. Derek’s far too awkward to make that last part work. He just hopes Stiles appreciates the effort. 

Amber eyes peek through the dark blue blanket, glinting at Derek, making sure he’s not calling bullshit. 

"We’re gonna go eat burgers. Right now. It’s Saturday and we’ve been working for four hours straight." 

Derek slips his glasses from his nose. His eyes feel like they’re burning. Four hours of studying and helping Stiles with Algebra is doing things to his brain. Especially with Stiles practically dominating his bed for two hours straight. Derek has that familiar “Snack Shack“ - burger - yearning grumbling in his gut. And if he had this planned all along without mentioning it to Stiles, because Derek wants to seem like a spontaneous, exciting individual , then hey, no one can blame him for wanting to impress some guy he likes. 

Maybe he also wants Stiles out of his bed. That's definitely something he’d never thought he’d actually genuinely want, but when said guy he likes is torturing him with a frequent case of blue balls, he needs to act. As in right now, because it’s real bad. 

"We still have Sunday and Monday, so might as well just call it a night."

For his dick, his painfully hard dick, throbbing against the zipper of his jeans. Derek tries his best to stare at the Algebra book, awkwardly angled against his lap. He hopes the painfully dull equations will bore his nether regions to sleep. Better yet a coma, because Stiles is coming over tomorrow and the day after. 

"If this is a trap I’m telling Cora you have a secret stash of Mars bars in the left side drawer of your desk right next to that weird picture of that mustache dude.“ 

Derek squints his eyes, settling the glasses back onto his nose. 

"First of all, it’s a portrait of Charles Darwin,“ he starts, earning himself a gigantic laugh from the awkward ghost on LSD,“ and second of all if you do that I will -"

_Punish you’re little ass so bad you won’t be able to walk straight for days, each step a reminder of my fucking cock_. 

Derek hates his penis so much right now. 

"You’ll what?“ Stiles asks. He’s freed himself from Derek’s sheets, hair all over the place, shirt slightly slumped to the side of his shoulder, a mischievous glint in his eye that Derek knows far too well. It’s challenging and devious. It’s currently forcing Derek to pull it the hell together and not uncontrollably rut against the Algebra book pressed against his lap. Stiles steadies his hands against the comforter and leans forward ever so slightly, his face mere inches away. Derek’s sweater suddenly feels painfully tight. The material seems to be suffocating him, boiling him. It’s the freaking amazon in there. 

Stiles’ hand moves forward. Derek is about to think he’s going to touch him, but then a slender finger pushes the glasses up his nose in a fluid movement. 

"What are you going to do? _Deedee_.“ 

Holy. Shit. 

Derek didn’t know that was going to be a thing for him. How can that be a thing for him?! Because it’s a full blown thing right now, raging in his groin, sweltering against the tight constriction of his jeans, throbbing, aching for him to touch. 

"I -"

A loud bang thunders through the room. Derek’s head whips towards the source of the sound.

"What up hoes! I - oh.“

Cora’s standing in the doorway, her features flowing from a surprised shock into a knowing smirk. 

No. Wait. _No_.

Stiles doesn’t even flinch. He’s still right there, inches away and blazing like a furnace. Derek pushes himself back, not capable of handling all the heat and the current flush of embarrassment chasing the blate right out of his groin and straight into his face. 

"We were just -"

"Mhm. Let’s just pretend this isn’t awkward. Laura and me are coming with. Erica invited us. So, yeah. When you’re all done in here, we’ll be waiting downstairs.“

And there goes Derek’s attempt at trying to seem spontaneous.

The door slams shut and the pen that Derek had wanted to hurl against his sister, smacks against the poster of the Night’s Watch. Jon Snow seems a little more pissed off than usual. Possibly because he has a tiny black indent right in the middle of his forehead.

Derek has no clue what to do with the cheeky grin Stiles is shooting at him. No clue.

 

♦︎

 

"Stiles, it’s going to be fine. They’re cool."

Derek is trying to sound as reassuring as possible.

"Kinda." Cora intervenes. It tends to get a little difficult when his sister constantly insists on trash talking his own friends.

They watch Cora and Laura practically fling themselves through the glass doors of the "Snack Shack", racing towards the booth where the others are already gulping down their shakes. Yes, they’re strawberry. And yes, they have their own booth. They indulge the sticky sweetness of all pubescent cliches. It’s High School. Why not?

"It’s just -" Stiles kicks a small pebble across the boardwalk, his hands dug deep into the pockets of his jacket as he watches the stone skip to a stuttering halt. He looks kind of nervous. Stiles is never nervous. Stiles is the kind of person who doesn’t give a single shit about anything. Which is why this moment seems to be so utterly earth shattering.

"They’re you’re friends,“ he sighs, avoiding every and all eye contact. Not that Derek would be capable of handling eye contact with his recently tamed boner in his pants. 

"They’re easy to be around. Just don’t bring up naked mole rats.“

Derek internally shivers at the chaotic conflict that had almost shattered the fundament of their whole entire friendship. 

Naked mole rats. 

"Oh yeah, because that’s always my opening line.“ 

Derek furrows his eyebrows until he's pretty sure they're close to meeting in the middle of his face. 

"Ugh. Okay! I can’t actually promise it won’t be my opening line! My brain’s still trying to recuperate after being turned to smashed potato after four hours of Algebra."

"It’s still _mashed_ potato."

"That’s what they want you to think!" Stiles shouts, his auburn eyes glowing wild in the neon lights of the "Snack Shack" sign. It’s flickering, and fizzing, and dipping the brown of his irises into electric blue.

"I can’t believe he’s gotten to you already.“ 

"Non - believer!" Stiles scoffs and gets cuffed right behind the head. Derek does that now. He touches Stiles. It’s never long enough for it to be considered anything else than a light tap or a slight nudge. Derek feels a little more comfortable around the guy. It just happens. There’s nothing he can do about it. And he knows he should. 

"Come on. Just do whatever the heck you do, that makes you charm people’s pants off," Derek states, giving Stiles a teensy smile, hoping for it to spark the slightest bit of reassurance. 

"Aw. Was that just a super weird, indirect compliment?"

Stiles is batting his eyelashes away like a Disney princess. Derek holds the glass door open, cocking his head to the side.

"I’m not going to say it again."

Stiles galavants through the entrance - again, like a Disney princess -twirling across the linoleum floor, his gangly limbs flowing with the movement. 

"You coming, sweetums?" Stiles purrs, giving Derek the kind of bedroom eyes that make him want to cuff the cocky charm right out of his brain, but it also makes him want to bend him right over the counter and freaking take until -

_Stop. Right there. Breathe._

"Derek, Stiles! Would you please hurry up? Otherwise we’ll order for you!“

Derek lightly nudges Stiles forward with an annoyed huff, steering him towards the booth oozing with hungry teenagers. 

"Hey. Uh, I’m Stiles," the boy says, sluggishly waving his hand into the air. 

"Yeah, we know. You drive the most beautiful car in the world." Boyd states, giving Stiles the once over.

"She’s really something."

Isaac leans a palm against his cheek, staring at a spot behind Boyd’s shoulder with dreamy baby blues. 

"Tell me about it. I have inappropriate dreams about her," Stiles sighs. "You guys can take her for a ride if you want. Although I can’t assure you that she’ll be gentle. She’s a real screamer." 

And then there’s a full on riot going on in the booth. Stiles knows how to win anyone over. It’s a god given gift. That, and his mouth. 

"That’s Boyd, Isaac and I’m Erica and I call dibs."

"Aw, hell no!" Boyd yells, flinging his straw out of his strawberry shake, a few droplets whirling across the table as he points it at his girlfriend. Erica smirks and leans forward, whispering something into his ear that makes the big guy blush a dark crimson. Erica’s an evil little mastermind with constantly perfect manicures. 

"Yeah, all good. She can call dibs."

Isaac punches Boyd in the bicep, earning himself a manly grunt.

"Hi. I’m Cora, by the way. Can we order food now?! I’m freaking starving, you asswipes!" 

Derek rolls his eyes and slides in next to Erica. She pinches his thigh and lets some feral shriek hum at the back of her throat. She stares at Stiles as he settles himself next to Cora. There’s another tiny screech when Stiles smiles at Derek and Boyd and Isaac are obviously turning their smirks into a full blown competition of "Who can make Derek feel more uncomfortable?".

Derek hates his friends. 

 

♦︎

 

The "joy ride" turns into a 1 am mini road trip to the lake. Erica is sitting at the wheel, practically slamming her foot onto the accelerator, relishing in the speed and the roaring of the V8 engine. The windows are wide open, the cool air whirling into the body of the vehicle. It's seeping through their clothes, mixing with the rush of adrenaline. Boyd is shouting and Isaac looks like he’s having the time of his life, his blue eyes open wide, gleaming in the reflecting beam of the headlights. Derek can’t help but giggle. It’s a super manly giggle, of course, because he doesn’t think the increasing speed of the car makes his insides feel all gooey and ticklish. Nope. He’s a tough guy. Super tough. 

"Best! Day! Ever!" Erica yells as the passing trees on the side of the road become a surreal wall of dark branches and crimson leaves. 

Stiles is climbing out of his passenger seat. The guy is fucking climbing out of his seat. Derek reaches forward, his hand clutching the flapping material of his jacket. The boy turns towards him. His auburn eyes seem to be inhibiting a violent storm. 

"Come on, Derek!“ 

His shouting is overtrumped by the ear shattering thunder of the car engine and the wailing air. Stiles heaves himself onto the rim of the open window, his hands clutching the handle bar tightly, his upper body reaching out of the Lambo, fighting against the howling wind. The material of his jacket is whipping behind him, thrashing like a wild river stream. Stiles howls. And then he’s laughing and turning his head. He’s looking at Derek and he looks wild and adventurous. He’s reaching out a hand, gesturing for Derek to join.

Derek has no idea what the hell he’s doing. All he knows is that he’s unbuckling himself. The sirens in his head are telling him not to. They’re yelling a loop of “idiot, idiot, idiot“ and “pull Stiles back into the car, pull him back in!“, but Derek isn’t listening anymore. He’s not thinking anymore as he climbs out of the backseat, curls his fingers into the handle bar. He's settling himself onto the rim of the backseat window and pushing his body out into the cold.

Derek imagines that this is what it feels like to fall from the sky. The air is whipping against his face, causing his eyes to burn and his throat to painfully constrict. His stomach feels like it’s being slammed against his spinal chord. The rush of wind is everywhere, bashing against him like a tidal wave. It's loud and savage. He’s right there, leaning out of a car window, driving at light speed, chest heaving in uncontrollable laughter. The shadow in front of him shifts. Bourbon eyes are staring at him, crinkling at the edges, accompanied by a beaming, wondrous smile. Stiles looks so beautiful. Derek feels like they’re leaving the world behind.It feels like this is all there is.It feels like this is all there ever should be. 

Adrenaline and weightlessness. 

And maybe for a brief moment, Derek feels like he’s found it, the answer to that question that has plagued him, ever since his first day in grade school. Mr. Thomson had bored through Derek’s eyes with his dull bespectacled glare and Derek had watched the question slip across his thin lips. 

"What is it you want from life?"

And Derek had had a million answers trapped inside his mouth, pushing against the tight constriction, but none of them had seemed right, none of them had felt like anything close to this.

Derek can’t keep his eyes off of him. Stiles is laughing, stretching a hand into the sky, reaching for all of it. The stars, the moon and everything beyond.

Because for this fleeting, scarce, little moment, Derek might have just realized that this is it. Derek wants this.

No responsibilities. No pressure. Just this tiny bit of freedom.

 

♦︎

 

"Holy shit!"

Erica’s voice is barely a discordant mumble. The Lambo has come to a complete halt. The windshield is facing the crystal surface of the lake. The only sound anyone is making is their pounding rhythm of hearts and their harsh intakes of breath. 

"That was epic," Boyd croaks. It takes them a few seconds to fall into a clashing jumble of bubbling laughter. The laughing fit is immediately interrupted by the booming honk of Boyd’s truck. Derek stumbles out of the car, his legs a limp spaghetti - mess. He leans forward, watches the pebbles of the shoreline mirror the dim light of the night sky. The adrenaline tide is slowly pulling back, receding into a dull rush. 

"All good, bud?"

Derek feels a heavy warmth fling itself over his back. Slender arms are sliding around his neck, dark Vans are crossing over his stomach. Derek turns his head and gives Stiles a small smile. 

"That was really stupid," he wheezes. It almost feels like he just ran a 10 mile marathon in two feet snow. Also, Stiles didn’t really get any lighter since the day he'd carried him through his whole entire house.

"Stupid, but fun! Super fun, Deedee!“ 

Stiles leans his cheek against his shoulder and lets out a little chuckle. Derek feels the vibrations of it flutter across his spine. 

"I knew you had an ounce of idiot in that Einstein brain of yours," he mumbles, an amused grin spreading across the bottom of his face. Stiles slides off of his back. Derek immediately misses the pleasant warmth of the boy’s body pressed against his. Stiles strolls next to him, their shoulders bumping every few steps. Stiles nudges Derek’s shoulder, Derek nudges back. It becomes a weird exchange of shoulder-bumping until they reach Boyd’s truck. Cora is racing out of the door, half stumbling over her own feet.

"I never knew it could go that fast!" she yells, her green eyes wide in astonishment. 

"Jesus Christ, guys! It was supposed to be a 'ride', not a race!"

"You forgot the 'joy' part, Laura. What fun is a Lambo if you can’t drive it over the speed limit?!" Isaac shouts. The guy is sprawled across the hood of the Lamborghini like a star fish. At least Derek had had the decency to refrain himself from assaulting Stiles’ car right then and there.  

"I think he’s in love." Erica coos.  

"I think we all are," Boyd sighs, eyeing the behind of the beautiful car, before getting punched against the chest. 

"Talking about you of course!" he utters, pulling the blonde into a tight embrace. 

"Nice save."

Erica pecks him on the cheek. 

"Alright, who’s getting the fire going? Because I had to sit in the car with Laura for an hour. It was horrible! I need some compensation," Cora exclaims, pulling out the blankets from under the backseats of the truck. Laura throws a pebble at her head.

"I say, Derek and Stiles do the job. You should show him around, Der." 

Erica cocks an eyebrow and folds her arms in front of her chest, an evil grin gracing her features.

Evil. Mastermind.

Derek is already pacing across the shoreline towards the woods, not wanting to put up a fight. What Erica Reyes says is law.

"Isaac, stop dry humping Stiles’ car."

Boyd is trying to rip the guy from the hood, which seems to be quite the difficult task, because Isaac won’t budge. 

The weirdo. 

"Nah, it’s okay, we’ve all been there." Stiles yells as he jumps over a damp log, trotting after him. Derek turns to look at the boy, furrowing his eyebrows.

"Whatever that means," he mumbles. Stiles’ eyebrows shoot up so fast it’s on the verge of comical.

"Oh, don’t you dare deny it, Hale. Acting all high and mighty!" he retorts, flinging his hands into the air, wiggling them around in bizarre motions. Derek grunts and turns back towards the front, listening to the crunching of stones under the soles of his shoes, ignoring all the muffled squawking going on behind him. Stiles catches up until their shoulders are back to occasional bumping. Every touch is a tiny jolt of electricity. 

"So, what’s up with this fire thing?"

"I don’t know. It’s what we used to do in freshman year. There’s this hiking trail through the forest that leads down here. We used to walk out here every Friday night and start a bon fire. That’s pretty much it." 

Derek remembers how much fun they used to have. Back when school hadn’t been so stressful and Derek hadn’t thought about his future every five seconds. He remembers making smores and trash talking the seniors and their stupid parties. Those nights were fun. The comfortable kind of fun. It's the kind of fun he really misses. 

"Holy shit, seriously?!" Stiles asks, a little incredulous. "Wow. That sounds like some teen flick stuff. No offense." 

The boy teasingly bumps against Derek’s shoulder just a bit harder. 

"Shut up." 

"Okay. Honestly, I think it’s kind of cute," Stiles retorts, racing across the pebbled shoreline, skipping over stray logs like a little kid. Stiles is this dynamic force. He's giddy and constantly moving, shifting and changing. It’s mesmerizing to watch him go berserk. One moment he’s there and the next he’s - jumping into the wall of pine trees. 

"Stiles?" Derek shouts as he races after the boy. He follows the sound of crunching brittle leaves and the constant giggle echoing across the maze of trees. It’s dark with the moon being filtered through the layers and layers of leafage.

"Come on, dude!" the disembodied voice buzzes through the air. Derek staggers over the forest floor, batting stray branches out of his face. Bright red flashes between the shadows of trees. Derek pursues it. Stiles’ jacket seems to glow a flaring red in the dark, a beacon in the gloomy labyrinth. 

"Stiles, where are you?" Derek shouts into the depths expanding in front of him. A chuckle is all that answers. It seems to come from everywhere, mirroring around him. Derek rolls his eyes. 

"We’re supposed to be gathering wood, not playing hide and seek."

There’s another chuckle. A red flash is racing across his peripheral vision. Derek spins around, hoping to pin the guy’s location down, but there’s nothing but darkness and the dim outline of thick woodland growth.

"At least start gathering some wood while you’re at it!" Derek shouts. 

He huffs and starts cramming out his battered Nokia. He presses a random button, letting the faint glow illuminate the forest floor. He’ll admit that it’s times like these where he wishes he had an iPhone. Those things have flashlights that can scorch someone's eyeballs out. All Derek can make out with the shitty light of the Nokia display are the white strings of his Converse. They’re not even white. They’re some dim grayish outline.

"Aw, come on! You’re giving up already?" Stiles asks, his voice booming down from above, amusement dripping from every word. 

Did this guy climb a fucking tree?! 

Derek shakes his head, ignores the question and starts looking for thick enough branches to keep a fire going. It gets hard shuffling across the woodland when you can’t see a thing. Derek spits out a string of non coherent obscenities when his foot jabs itself into a rather large tree stump. A ringing cackle bursts from his left. Derek glares into the shadows leaking onto the forest floor. Asswipe. 

He catches sight of a shred of bright red only a few feet away. Derek paces towards it, fighting his way through the thick foliage, ignoring the throbbing pain in his right foot. Something sharp hits him against the back of his head. The object rolls across the brittle leaves, brown and spiky.

"A pine cone? Really?" 

There’s the distinct sound of branches snapping under heavy weight. Derek whirls around, coming face to face with dark eyes and a bright cheshire grin. He stumbles back, his spine meeting the gruff surface of timber. 

"Really." 

The voice is smooth, husky and honeyed. It chases shivers from the heels of Derek's shoes right up his spine and into his hairline. Stiles is close. Crisp leaves are crumbling under his weight shifting forward. Hot breath ghosts over the surface of Derek’s skin, a slight hint of strawberry and something sharper, smokier. Stiles is so close his pale features are a blurred plane of skin expanding in front of him. Derek knows Stiles is aware of everything he’s doing, knows he’s about to do something Derek yearns for. The boy’s thumb slightly grazes the line of his jaw. It’s a gentle, soft caress. The delicate touch charges his skin with the kind of wild thrill that Derek feels humming in his bones. It’s chilling and blazing and electric. Stiles leans forward,the slightest shift of a movement. Derek can’t help but close his eyes and let himself drown in the feeling of the pleasurable warmth wavering between them, the heat bleeding into his clothes and prickling over his skin like high voltage. The trees are whispering around them, a roaring, almost deafening sound as the wind washes through the woodland. Derek wants to indulge, wants to savor every single moment of Stiles being right there, so utterly, utterly close. 

But Derek can’t do any of that, cant have an of it. He wants to stay away. Distance. He needs distance. 

Derek shifts his legs, causing himself to slip away from the tree that had been steadying his back. He's stumbling away from the heat, away from Stiles. Every inch of him is revolting, rioting against everything pulling him away.  

"We should uh -" Derek starts. Jesus fucking Christ he sounds wrecked. 

It’s too dark to make out the features of the other boy. All he can see is the gleam of dark eyes practically nailing his head into place. 

"The others must be wondering where we are. We should - you know. The wood. Yeah," Derek stutters. The familiar urge to smash something against his head is back and it’s so strong he has to literally keep himself from just taking his Nokia. Stiles is still standing there, not moving, just staring at him. It’s surreal seeing him so still. It's a contrasting paralyzation to the constant movement that dominates his usual posture. The only thing that can be considered “good“ about this whole entire fucked up situation is that it’s dark, dark enough to hide the emotional roller coaster ride Derek is currently being flung into, dark enough to make it (physically) difficult for him to look at Stiles. The boy is nothing but a motionless dim shadow, almost leaking into the dark obscured shapes of the trees.

Derek wants it all back. He wants to feel the sensation of the surreal intimacy and that heat. Stiles’ heat. Derek is ninety-fourpercent sure he’d been two seconds away from getting kissed by none other than Stiles Stilinski. 

Stiles fucking Stilinski. 

How is this his life? He’s been fantasizing about that moment for a whole entire year, in multiple diverse scenarios and sceneries. He built in background noise and smells. Who the hell does that?

In his fantasies there’s rain, and a carnival and some alternative rock band playing in the background, the melodies mixing with the smell of popcorn and wet concrete. It's pretty much every rom - com mashed into one gigantic make out session. But that’s why they’re called fantasies. Fantasies are a realm where you can do everything and anything you’re far too afraid to pursue in reality. And that’s what Derek is. He’s afraid of getting involved. He’s too much of a coward to take what he wants. He’s not audacious enough to keep up with the adventure. He’s not daring enough to get his heart broken by someone like Stiles.

Because Derek is simply Derek. 

"Yeah. Yeah we should go," Stiles finally speaks. He sounds completely unfazed, as if the last few minutes didn’t even happen, as if all’s right with the world and Derek isn’t currently losing his mind. Derek would be lying if that didn’t sting him right in the gut. But then again, it’s his own fault. All of it is his fault. The cosmos just flung another big fat sparkly turd into his face. Super duper.

The walk back is the literal embodiment of awkward silence. They gather stray branches without anyone ushering another word. They’re so quiet, Derek can’t even hear their breathing, just the howling of the wind and Stiles’ constant fidgeting. 

When they gather around the small bonfire Stiles pointedly sits next to Cora and Boyd, seemingly avoiding eye contact at every cost. Derek slumps agains a moist log, listening to Isaac animatedly ramble away about the pros and cons of lacrosse sticks. Isaac has no idea about lacrosse sticks. Derek’s pretty sure Isaac doesn’t even know how the dynamics of the sport really work. 

It’s a long painful hour filled with self loathing and guilt. 

He keeps on trying to convince himself that he made the right decision. But then his mind wanders back to the weird celestial epiphany he had when they were in the Lambo, and he can’t help but wonder if he’s not meant to have that. What if he’s going to end up being the kind of person who swells up with regret, despising each and every day of his painful existence until he eventually dies, without having reached anything he wanted in life? 

Because Derek wants Stiles. He wants him so bad, but he fucked up. And the worst part is, Derek knows he could still turn his whole entire life upside down if he just walked up to him and told him how he feels, how Stiles is part of something bigger he wants in life.

But Derek’s the biggest coward there is. He’s too afraid of getting involved. He’s afraid of giving Stiles everything and then watching him leave. Because Stiles is Stiles. He’s messed up in ways Derek isn’t even fully aware of yet. And Derek’s his own kind of orchestrated screw up. And then there's Harvard and his future.

They’d be horrible together. Stiles would wreck him. Even worse, Derek would wreck him. Stiles shouldn’t lose another person in his life. He simply can’t. 

So, maybe this was the right decision. Maybe all of this is going to be worth it some day, some day when Derek doesn’t have to fight the uncontrollable urge to break his face with his Nokia. 

Derek’s knows he’s way in over his head, has been ever since the day he brought Stiles home. 

 

♦︎

 

"Where’s Stiles?" 

Derek stares at his Nokia, glares at the words shimmering on the display. 

 

**Hey, thanks for the last few weeks. You definitely saved my ass and I think I’m prepared for the exams and stuff. So, I don’t think I'll need any further help. I’ll give you the money on Monday.**

 

No smiley, no exclamation marks, no funny typos - just dry appreciations and heavy full stops. Derek feels like mushing his face into his Cap’n Crunch cereal. He wants to smother himself with the soggy, sticky sweetness and die an excruciatingly embarrassing death. 

"Dunno," Derek finally answers. Cora is jabbing a breadstick against his cheek. His hand surges forward and snaps it in half, the crumbs dusting the surface of the kitchen island.

"Jeez, Laura. You weren’t kidding. He’s in full caveman mode." 

Derek stuffs a giant spoon full of cereal into his mouth, hoping it’ll stop him from bursting into a lengthy, rambunctious rant about how his sisters should leave him the fuck alone, which means no more breadstick jabbing. 

Grandpa Ted strolls into the kitchen, hair a silvery disarray, his glasses turned upside down. It’s a mystery to Derek how he’s still capable of dodging the Juice - Jabber (Ted had finally christened his notorious refrigerator invention). Then again, grandpa Ted is probably just blind. That would explain all the crooked portraits and the floors scattered with random decor. 

"Where’s the Polish Mystery?" he grumbles.

Ugh. 

"Derek doesn’t know." 

Cora jabs another breadstick against his cheek. Derek is so, so close to losing it. 

"Where did this little sunshine come from?" 

Grandpa Ted slides into the stool across from him, pointing a toast at Derek's face. Derek stares at the piece of bread limply hanging from the man’s shriveled fingers. It sways back and forth before it comes forward and pokes his forehead. Derek’s glower deepens into dark, irate wrath.

"That bad, huh? You guys get into a fight?" 

How is his grandpa Ted this good of a mindreader? 

"Wait. That would explain the whole entire angry juju going on yesterday," Laura points out, munching on her Quinoa Porridge. His older sister is on some bizarre vegan trip since two days ago. Emphasis on "bizarre". What the hell is a fava bean breakfast spread?

"We didn’t get into a fight." 

"Who got into a fight?" 

Talia’s dark locks appear behind Cora. His mother galavants to the coffee machine, her feet snuggled into Laura’s weirdo bunny slippers. She whirls around as she pours herself a cup. When she catches a glimpse of Derek’s grumpy face, she frowns, the steam giving her demeanor a much more theatrical effect. 

"Honey. What’s wrong?" she asks, pushing the carafe back onto the warming plate. Derek pointedly digs his spoon into his bowl, stabbing the left over cereal repeatedly until all that’s left is something that looks awfully similar to Laura’s regurgitated poop soup. 

"Stiles and him got into a fight," Cora muffles around her sandwich.

"Nobody got into a fight!" Derek exclaims, pushing his bowl across the counter top, crossing his arms in front of him, staring metaphorical laser beams into Ted’s peanut butter jar.

"Fine, a disagreement then - or a misunderstanding that is affecting your friendship."

How the hell does that man do that?! Derek can’t keep himself from blatantly gawking at his grandfather, utterly slack jawed. 

"Bingo," the older man asserts. Derek groans and slams his forehead into his arms. He has a right to be a shameless child in the safety of these four walls. Especially in front of his apparently telekinetic grandfather. Derek peeks at the table top when his mother pushes a coffee mug towards him. He gratefully wraps his hands around the warmth of the flaking porcelain, watching Ted spread his piece of toast with a mountain of chunky peanut butter. It’s probably his psychic fuel. 

"Derek," Professor Xavier says his name like a declaration. "Sometimes you turn away from someone and you look back and half your life is gone."

The words seep into him in a slow and languid process. It hurts how much he already knows it, how that sentence is the summary of the train of thoughts that have kept him tossing and turning for hours all night.

"Buttercup? What in the name of - What are you eating? Fecal matter with fur balls?" 

God. This guy. 

Cora spits out half of her sandwich, while Laura immediately starts engrossing herself into one of her rehearsed "I’ve made a choice of living a healthy lifestyle" speeches. Thalia presses a gentle peck onto her daughter’s cheek once she’s finally come to an end, her eyes wild, chest rising and falling as if being a vegan is a constant struggle for survival. 

"We got it sweetie," Talia states. That seems to just intensify her need for justification, because her speech starts anew, arguments simply jumbled into a different order. 

Grandpa Ted bites into his peanut butter with a hint of toast. He’s giving Derek his Yoda Ted stare, green eyes glistening emerald in the morning light leaking through the kitchen windows. 

_Half your life is gone._

Is it? Stiles is an unfinished chapter, but he isn’t gone yet. He hasn’t disappeared. It simply depends on wether Derek wants him to.

 

♦︎

 

Stiles doesn’t give Derek the money on Monday, because Derek had told him he didn’t need to. The boy hadn’t answered. Derek had taken that as a silent “Okey dokey. Suit yourself.“.

So, there Derek is, standing in the parking lot of Beacon Hills High School, supposedly waiting for Erica, but trying his absolute best to completely and thoroughly ignore anything affiliated with the other side. 

Stiles. Derek is trying to ignore Stiles. 

Which is incredibly problematic, due to his fruity chuckles ringing right across the concrete expanse and straight into Derek’s ear. Derek’s very much ignoring ear. He can’t help but feel like the guy is having a boisterous time on his side of the parking lot. He's all beaming smiles and sparkly auburn eyes. Stiles doesn’t even look into his direction. No wave, no smiley - wink like usual. Derek feels ridiculous. He’s probably being agonizingly obvious about his desperate attempt at disregard. To be completely honest, Derek doesn’t even know why he’s doing it. He should be acting like a half way functioning adult of society by now. He should be acting normal. How the hell does he act normal again? 

His brain is a useless black vortex, sucking every ounce of meaning right out of his sad, little, germ - sized presence in the world that is his sad, little, germ - sized life. At least he should feel content about all of this. This is good. He accomplished what he’d wanted to accomplish. He helped Stiles. That had been his promise to himself and he kept it. So, this should feel like a tiny bit of an achievement. Derek’s a real good person. Stiles has been academically aided and now he’s obviously keeping his distance. Rightfully so. That’s all Derek had wanted. 

Except Derek wants something completely and utterly different. 

He watches Stiles’ eyes roam his side of the parking lot. He follows his gaze and catches a glimpse of Erica wiggling her manicured fingers into the air. Stiles waves, a big gigantic grin on his face. Derek should slap himself for feeling the ludicrous amount of jealousy going on in his cerebrum, painting the inside of his skull a gross, sticky green. Stiles is allowed to wave at Erica. Erica didn’t purposely blow him off.

 

♦︎

 

The week goes by so fast, Derek doesn’t even feel the familiar perception of relief by the time it’s Saturday. It’s Saturday. So what? He’s been cooped up in his room studying like a maniac, drilling text book after text book into his head, watching the last episodes of "Doctor Who" and finishing his secret Mars bars stash. 

It’s so much easier studying without Stiles embodying a constant distraction. No awkward boners, no reading the first sentence ten times, no flinging pencils or erasers stabbing someone’s eye out, no laughing fits, no Stiles - emergency - boogie - dance - sessions (yes, those used to happen). 

Studying alone feels _normal_. Derek should be appreciative of the normality of it all. It’s funny how his apparent perception of "normality" is his life without Stiles. It’s not really that funny. It’s depressing, mostly. 

The buzz of his Nokia makes him jerk out of his bio - chem - induced thought process. He catches himself hoping to see those six letters. Those six letter starting with S and ending in - 

It turns out to be five. Erica.

 

**HALE! WE’RE GOING TO A PARTY TONIGHT! YOU’RE COMING! WE’RE PICKIN YOU UP AT 9!**

 

_Erica, stop shouting._

 

**YOU’RE STILL COMING!**

 

_No, I’m perfectly fine over here._

 

**HELL NO! YOU HAVE BEEN A HERMIT FOR A WEEK! YOU’RE COMING!**

 

_My mom won’t let me._

 

**I called your mom, she says it’s okay :)**

 

****_You’re a dick._

 

**Yes. Yes I am.**

 

♦︎

 

"Bonsoir, ma cherie!“ 

Erica is dangling half way out of the passenger seat window. Her hair is a bleached mess of curls, her lips a flaming maroon, her cleavage practically bursting. Are those loop earrings? 

"You look like a hooker."

Derek slides into the backseat next to Isaac, crossing his arms in front of his chest, glowering at the back of the head rest. He’s completely underdressed. Derek had intentionally locked his room in order for his family to keep their fashion advice to themselves. A whole lot of good that’s done him.

"You still mad?" Erica theatrically sighs. "Well boo fucking hoo!"

She flicks a glittery gold nail against the middle of his glasses. Derek bats her flimsy hand away. 

"Oi! No cat fights!" Boyd declares, his dark eyes scanning the backseats through the reflection of the rear view mirror. Derek growls. Erica giggles. 

"Did you bring your pepper spray, Derek?"

Grandpa Ted is leaning against the railing of the front porch, frantically waving a hand above his head. 

"No, grandpa. I don’t own pepper spray." Derek shouts out of the window.

"Who doesn’t own pepper spray?!" his grandpa retorts. He looks utterly appalled by his grandson’s apparent lack of pepper spray ownership. Boyd punches a short rhythm against the horn. The others lean out of the window, waving back.

"We don’t, sir! We’ll bring Derek back in one piece!"

"No need! You have permission to bring him back in half."

" _Dad!_ "

"What? The boy needs to have some fun, dumpling! You have no idea how much freedom I gave you!"

"I’m his mother!"

"And I’m his captain!"

"What?!“

"Let the beast out, dude!"

"Cora!"

"Nice one, sugarpuff!"

 

♦︎

 

Derek still hates parties. He doesn’t have many on stock in order to establish a fair comparison, but he believes the loathing is somehow programmed into his dork brain. Derek is currently trying to figure out if the banana suit guy is the same guy. Is it even a guy?

"How the hell did we get invited to this thing?"

Derek dodges a plastic cup being flung right past his face, the rim slicing against his cheek. He rubs a hand against his flesh, glaring into the direction the cup had come from. The mansion is a sweaty, savage moshpit. The crashing bass of electro-trap is reverberating through the structure of the house, pounding into his ears in a reckless rhythm. Kids are shouting, dancing, mouths open and singing along to the lyrics. Derek has no idea how the neighborhood hasn’t alarmed the cops already. There’s a fucking carnival going on in this thing.  

"Scott invited us!"

Erica wraps her hand around his wrist and tugs him through a group of raving teens, dark liquid gushing out of their plastic cups and bottles. 

"How do you even -" Derek starts, but shuts up when Erica presses a cup into his hand. 

"We met at the lake house party. One sip, Derek!"

Derek eyes the dark brown concoction fizzing in the red solo cup. He quirks an eyebrow. Erica is grinning, her bleached blonde hair shining platinum in the lights of the chandeliers. Derek lowers the cup and ignores the way the girl rolls her eyes. There’s a sharp smack on his shoulder blade. The impact practically forcing him to almost topple over. 

"Leave him, Erica. If he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want to," Boyd declares, pressing Derek against his shoulder. "I’m gonna dance. You coming?"

Boyd takes Erica’s hand, twirling her in a circle. She giggles and sways her hips as they move towards the living room. It's a jammed space of tangled limbs and wild rhythms.

"Derek?" she asks, a hopeful gleam in her eyes. Derek is so close to saying "yes". He's so close to saying “fuck this shit, let’s do this!“, but Derek’s far too _Derek_ to make that scenario happen. He shakes his head, tilts his cup towards them and watches Erica furrow her eyebrows. She has nothing to be worried about. Derek’s perfectly fine. He leans against the stair case until the song comes to an end, before he makes his way through the cramped hallways towards wherever the hell he’s going. He thinks about looking for Isaac, anything to preoccupy himself and give his existence some meaning. His life is currently severely lacking exactly that, because Derek is ghosting around crowded hallways filled with intoxicated teens, wishing he were at home in his bed, with his laptop and _Game of Thrones_.

Derek finds Isaac in the kitchen. The boy is animatedly talking to some guy with dark, curly hair and an affectionate smile - Scott. They’re both laughing, eyes squinting, throats bobbing in loud cackles. Derek isn’t really sure if he should approach them when Scott turns around, recognition flashing over his large brown eyes. 

"Derek! Haven’t seen you in like forever man!"

Scott throws an arm around his shoulder. Derek freezes. Should he pat him on the back? He should. No he shouldn’t. He stands completely still through the whole entire process of Scott patting a hand onto his shoulder blade. When the boy finally takes a few steps back. He has one of those goofy grins spread across his face, making him look like a dorky puppy.

"Been a while," Derek manages to choke out. That didn’t even sound that awkward. Good job.

Scott leans forward, closing the distance between his mouth and Derek’s ear.

"I was just telling Isaac about our new lacrosse co - captain. Jackson Whittemore’s a big fucking dick!" 

Maybe if Scott weren’t already a little drunk, he’d have noticed that that hadn’t been anything close to a whisper.

"I heard that, McCall. Why don’t I make sure coach finds out about your failing grades in chem. Your sorry little ass will be off the team in no time!"

A blonde, blue eyed boy is leaning against the kitchen counter. Derek internally holds back a scoff, because if that isn’t the pure embodiment of a filthy rich, spoiled, little prep kid, Derek doesn’t what is. His hair is one perfect golden wave, shoes polished to a painful reflection, clothes color coordinated and clinging to him in ways that shouldn’t be allowed on a teenage boy.

Scott flips him off. Jackson gives him sneer, a fucking _sneer_. Jesus Christ, these kids are terrifying.

"Any - _whore!_ " Scott yells the last word as he commences and turns back towards Isaac and Derek. Jackson scrunches up his face in disgust. 

"That guy’s like Beacon Hill’s very own Draco Malfoy," Scott cackles. Isaac chuckles and Derek can’t help but be completely awestruck by the spot on comparison. Scott gestures towards the terrace door. 

"Let’s get high!"

"Bye, Weaslebee!"

"All true bloods are related Malfoy!"

They squirm out of the door before they have time to decipher Jackson’s shouting over the thrumming blare of the music. Scott rolls onto the grass, bumping into a few kids sprawled across the lawn of the backyard. It’s not really a backyard. It's more of a mini sculpture park. 

Scott chuckles as he scrambles back onto his feet, strolling down a narrow path under high wood arbors entangled in dark burgundy roses. The path leads to small fountain engulfed by a constellation of trees and perfectly trimmed bushes 

"Do you live here?" Isaac asks, stumbling over a tiny statue of a chubby baby with bow and arrow in hand. 

"Me? Nah. I live a couple of blocks that - a - way!" Scott points his arms into the star infested sky. Derek grunts. Right.

"Hey, Derek! Our moms are meeting for coffee tomorrow."

Derek watches the boy squirm around, dragging a joint out of the pocket of his hoodie. Derek likes that this guy goes to this kind of party in a hoodie. Everyone else looks like they spent 800 dollars and three hours on their outward appearance. 

Derek settles onto a marble bench next to the fountain, digging his hands into his pockets, curling into the warmth of his jacket. 

"Yeah, she told me. She said Melissa isn’t even close to being an asshat."

"Well, aren’t they a match made in heaven. BFF’s in the making, dude."

Scott laughs. It’s a pleasant, silvery sound. Isaac flings him his lighter, when he catches sight of the boy patting down his jeans. A small flame illuminates the dark, fighting back the shadows leaking through the trimmed bushes and the Maple trees. Scott clamps the joint between his lips. Derek watches as the tip sparks and fizzes under the heat of the flame. He inhales, the glimmering tip of the joint brightening for a brief moment, smoke writhing into the dim darkness before the embers fade to a dull glow. 

"Good stuff." he wheezes, as he cages the smoke in his lungs, passing the joint over to Isaac. It’s weird seeing Isaac, this curly haired kid he’d known since kindergarten, smoke weed. It feels like along the way of Derek cooping himself up in his room more and more, he's missed the part where his friends started to continue moving on, leaving the innocent years of their childhood behind, shrugging it off like worn out clothing. Derek still remembers them drinking out of juice boxes in Boyd’s basement, snuggled into their sleeping bags, watching _Lord of the Rings_ until they fell asleep before ever finishing the motion picture. Derek misses those times. He misses the way the world had seemed so much easier. 

Isaac cocks an eyebrow. Derek shakes his head. The boy shrugs and passes the joint back to Scott. The two of them settle onto the bench next to him, stretching their limbs outward, leaving their bodies slack and lazy. They stare into the sky and watch the thin sheen of clouds travel across the vast expanse of stars. They talk about simple things, easy things. They talk about the bakery that Isaac's family runs and the ethereal revelations that are the berry mango buttermilk muffins topped with white chocolate passion fruit frosting. They talk about Jackson Whittemore’s douchey douche hair and how he probably polishes his asshole with Kleenex wipes. The conversation eventually trails off into some abstract, complex direction that Derek can’t keep up with. Their sluggish word exchange becomes a monotonous background noise, seeping into the dulled beats of the music pulsating from across the the mini sculpture park. Derek feels comfortable out here. It’s not as suffocating as the constant crammed spaces in the mansion. No sweaty bodies, no shouting. Derek wonders if Boyd and Erica are still dancing. 

Probably. 

They have the whole _Dirty Dancing_ thing going on. Boogie - stamina. 

Derek can’t help but wonder about another person being here. Someone with pale, freckled skin and helter - skelter hair. 

Definitely. Free booze. 

Derek is completely ashamed of feeling like he shouldn’t be here if Stiles is here. He's ashamed but not completely incapable of shrugging off the last piece of his dignity and just leaving. His two bench mates are far too breezy to retaliate against his incapability of managing a smooth exit. Well, Isaac’s looking breezy, Scott looks like he’s two minutes away from laughing joyous, manly tears. 

"Byyyeeeee," Isaac breathes, a hand limply moving upward, but stopping mid - motion as if Isaac’s body doesn’t have the strength nor the concentration to allow the movement to reach any farther into the unknown. Scott simply wiggles his arms into the air, channeling his inner jellyfish. Derek gives them a sloppy wave and walks back up the pebbled path winding towards the house. He internally grumbles a string of the most terrifying curses his extensive obscenity vocabulary list has to offer, when he notices that the only way to get off of this property is to walk out the front door, meaning Derek has to fight his way through the gates of hell.

Fine. He might be a little over exaggerating, but as a self diagnosed introvert, walking through a mass of sweaty bodies and blasting techno isn’t really an exuberant walk through the park. 

The house seems to be even more packed than it had been an hour ago. The beats are wilder, the kids barbarian. It’s like walking into a storm of the untamed. Derek has to literally elbow and shove his way through the maze of bodies. He keeps his eyes strained to the floor, watching matching wingtips, boat shoes and stilettos slide over the filthied alabaster floor, tapping to the beat and skipping over stray plastic cups. When he’s almost reached the front door Derek catches a glimpse of perfect disheveled hair exiting a room of the hallway.

Stiles is slipping through the crowd, his hand vigorously rubbing against his nose, his shoulders shifting upwards with the constant sniffing. Derek’s close enough. If he just extended his arm he could reach him.

Derek watches the boy slip a plastic card into the back pocket of his jeans. It’s a flaking loyalty card for some Jamba Juice rip off. Derek turns and looks back at the door the boy had just come out from. Someone wrote “Powder Room“ onto a ripped out notebook page. It’s plastered to the dark wood, the letters some barely decipherable chicken scratch. 

Derek knows what that means. Derek’s not a fucking idiot. It’s not like it’s a surprise. It’s Stiles after all. 

There’s a sharp scorching pain jolting into the skin of his left hand.

"What the fu -"

"Sorry, man." 

Derek glares at the asshole holding up his cigarette into the air, looking anything but apologetic. He clutches at the throbbing skin, trying to pull it the hell together and not bash the stranger's pretty little face in. Derek doesn’t even feel like it’s worth wasting his time on. The longer he concentrates on the sharp pain, and the stranger’s amused grin, the more he’s likely to lash out. Derek doesn’t lash out, not in public. He has anger management issues he needs to come to terms with. Just not right now.

He whips his head around, his eyes frantically searching for Stiles. It’s as if the crowd of warm bodies has swallowed him whole. Derek fights his way through the entry hall, his body whirling around, scanning every single person jamming themselves past him. He’s gone. 

_Why are you looking for him anyways? What the hell do you have in mind?_

The question is a freaking cryptogram. Derek shakes his head, quickly jerks it from left to right like the movement will ward off all the questions tumbling around in his skull. He needs air. Fresh, cool, breathable air. Derek shoulders his way past a group of rowdy jocks swinging their cups dangerously close to his face. He stumbles out of the crammed doorway and into the November night. 

The chilling air isn’t the only thing that hits him right in the face.

Stiles is standing in the car infested driveway, leaning against his Lambo. There’s another body pressed against his. He’s kissing him. They’re kissing, clutching at each other in heated fervor. Derek can’t look away. It’s as if everything around the two is dipped into darkness and all Derek can see is this illuminated patch of _them_. Stiles is kissing someone else, someone who isn’t Derek. And it hurts. 

The two practically roll across the whole entire metal structure of the car, stumbling towards the doors, ripping them open, sliding into the leather seats. Derek can’t see them in the car. He doesn’t have to, in order to know what they’re doing - what that stranger is doing with Stiles. Derek doesn’t know how long it takes for the motor to finally roar and the Lambo to back out of the drive way. Derek doesn’t move. He just stands right there, watching the red tail lights flicker in the distance, listening to the grumbling of the V8 fading away. And then all there’s left is the constant jabbing shoves of people trying to crush themselves past him and electro-trap buzzing through the air. 

It takes Derek an eternity to rip his gaze from the spot where the car had disappeared. It takes him even longer to take a step back. Then another. And another. Derek is tumbling back into the house, viciously jostling his way towards the kitchen, grabbing the next bottle of anything that looks like a big, fat "don’t fucking drink me" and racing out of the mansion, away from the party, the people and the music. 

Derek doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t stop running. All he can hear is the liquid of the bottle splashing against its glass confinement, his sneakers slapping against the gravel pavement, the rush of the wind bashing past him, skimming over his shifting body, molding into the dips and curves of his moving muscles. He doesn’t know where he’s running to, hasn’t given his destination any thought. He just keeps on racing, racing, racing, further, further, further - until it completely stops. The world freezes, his head keeps on turning like he’s on some steady carrousel ride. There’s no music, no laughter, just an empty, rusty old playground. 

Derek doesn’t know what the heck he’s doing as he settles into the dip of the metal slide, his hands curling around the cool glass of the bottle. Derek wrote an essay about the indecency of public intoxication in freshman year. His life is one tiny ironic blob in the vastness of the galaxy. 

"What are you doing?" Derek asks. He’s not sure if he’s asking himself that question or the bearded man up in the sky. It’s one of those questions that are simply flung into the Troposphere. Maybe it’ll float upward, past the Stratosphere, the Mesosphere, the Thermosphere and the Milky Way, and maybe, just maybe, some higher intergalactic power will be capable of summing up an explanatory solution.

But Derek doesn’t have time to wait, because it feels like someone just wrenched his insides out, gutted him, trampled on every single organ and tried to squeeze them back under his ribs. Obviously that someone hasn’t got a single clue about biology, because it feels like his innards have all been rearranged into some dysfunctional glob of excruciating pain. 

So, this is what it feels like to get hurt. _Heartache,_ Derek’s mind supplies. He wants to roll his eyes so bad. Isn’t this just another giant cliche? He's the guy who messes it all up by himself. 

By himself. Alone. All alone. Lonely.  

Derek stretches the bottle above his head, watches the street lights filter their glow through the bronze liquid.Single Malt Scotch Whiskey. 

Derek can’t help but compare the wondrous sun - kissed auburn to the color of Stiles’ eyes. And then it’s all back. A tsunami wave of nausea is washing into his gut, lapping against the walls of his stomach. The memory has etched itself into the backside of his eyelids. 

It's the crystal image of Stiles kissing someone else.

They’re probably at his place, rutting against his color patched sheets, kissing and - 

Derek doesn’t have the strength to continue his trail of thought. He grabs the throat of the bottle tightly. 

This is stupid. Why the hell did he just steal a whole entire bottle of Scotch Whiskey?

Because of him.

Derek unscrews the lid. He doesn’t let himself ponder to long upon the consequences before he’s pressing the opening against his lips and gulping it down. It burns hot and heavy down his throat, scorching his innards, the acrid taste making his stomach revolt. His eyes start to tear and his skull feels like it’s on the verge of igniting right through the roots of his hair. He pulls the bottle away from his lips, the thick fluid dribbling down his chin. Derek coughs against the sleeve of his jacket. 

He pauses, settles the bottle in between his legs. It sort of reminds him of the time he discovered masturbation. He feels ashamed and horrified, but the fear of it doesn’t stop him from wanting to do it again, to give into the thrill another time. If Single Malt Scotch Whiskey will dull Stiles into something bearable - the way it apparently does in the movies, a source Derek is perfectly aware he shouldn’t trust, but he’s feeling far too sloppy to currently care - then Derek will take another swig. 

He’ll just take another sip, just enough until he feels like he can walk back home without living through the endless loop of memory replaying at the back of his lids in agonizing slow motion, just enough until he feels like he can forget, just enough until he doesn’t feel this agonizing hate for himself, this heated self - loathing for getting involved with him. He let himself have a taste of what he wants in life and now he knows he might never get it back. He should’ve known better. 

Derek wonders if this is what caring for someone is really all about. What if it’ll be like this every single time? Derek doesn’t want it to be like this every single time. Derek doesn’t even want to think about the next person he’ll fall in love with. 

_In love._

Derek knows this isn’t love, but it still hurts all the same. It still really fucking hurts. 

Derek doesn’t take another sip. Single Malt Scotch Whiskey won’t make the world disappear. It won’t make Derek disappear. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tend to make things so much more dramatic... I'm sorry... They just bring out the soap operas in me ●﹏● I can't help it! Also don't ask me why Derek has a portrait of Charles Darwin hidden in his desk drawer. I have no freaking clue. My brain....


	7. Frodo Feels & Fried Brains

Derek feels like this is the perfect time for him to fling himself into his studies. Instead, he feels like viciously ripping out each page of his history book, crumpling them into teeny - tiny little paper shreds and flinging the mass of excess scrunchy paper out of the fucking window. Derek can’t concentrate on anything for longer than five minutes. _Five minutes._

Derek’s a mean, lean study - machine. Derek can study for hours and hours without toilet breaks. His bladder is full on study proof.

God, he’s a sad human being, sad and infuriatingly frustrated. He can’t even read past the first two sentences of “And Then There Were None“. Derek always reads past the first fifteen pages in under twenty minutes. 

What is up with his brain?! 

A rhetorical question. The answer is something he’d like to avoid. 

Derek rips his glasses from his face and roughly scrubs his hands against his skin until it's prickling over his cheek bones. Scott and his mom are coming over for lunch in an hour. Derek needs to get shit done. But all his sad little brain manages to think of is stupid bourbon eyes and stupid bed head hair.

Derek flops onto the cold wooden floor. He catches himself yearning for ruby red, fluffy carpets and heated floor boards. 

 

♦︎

 

"Der! The McCall’s are here and mom said you need to - what are you doing?"

Laura’s hand is limply hanging onto the door handle. She cocks her head to the side, green eyes squinted to narrow slits. 

Derek is currently sprawled across the floor, “And Then There Were None“ draped across his face, blurred letters suffocating him with their imminent lack of meaning.

"Reading," he muffles into the pages. 

"You’re such a weirdo."

Laura rips the tattered novel from his face. Derek watches it soar over her shoulder. It thuds against his bookshelf, causing a few stray books to clatter against the floor.  

Derek knows he shouldn’t even consider retaliating when his sister is looming over him like the freaking menace she is. Her Hale - brows are particularly intimidating today, strained together and almost meeting in the middle of her face. 

"Can you guys please talk it out? I mean, jeez! You’ve been a freaking mess since friday," she huffs, crossing her arms in front of her chest. She kicks his ribcage for good measure. Derek squirms to the side, heaving himself onto his feet, his muscles protesting against each and every movement, screaming for him to simply fling himself onto the floor again. It looks hard and dusty and welcoming from up here.

"We don’t have to talk anything out," he mumbles as he pats nonexistent dirt from his denim clad legs. Laura rolls her eyes. 

"Oh, please! He told me the exact same thing. So, something must’ve gone down!"

"You talk to Stiles?"

Derek bends down to reach for his glasses. His sister beats him to it. He watches her blurred silhouette play with the glasses, flinging the object into the air and catching it in repeated motions. 

"Of course I talk to Stiles. The guy has been living with us for the past month. Now could you please make up with your boyfriend before you accidentally kill the whole family with that death glare of yours?!"

Derek reaches forward, his sister dodging the movement, swaying the glasses high above her head. Derek lets out another strangled huff.

"He’s not my boyfriend, Laura!"

"Could’ve fooled me!"

Derek watches as a blurred hands come forward, slipping the glasses back onto his nose. His eyes slowly readjust. There’s a deep, dangerous crease between his sister's eyebrows. She looks worried. Derek doesn't want her to look so worried. 

"I don’t like seeing you like - like this."

Laura hectically gestures towards him, her hands roaming across the expanse of his body. Her frown deepens just the slightest bit.

"It’s not good for you, Derek. Whatever the hell happened. You need to help fix it," she whispers, her voice so much softer than usual. Laura seems genuinely concerned and it hurts Derek so much for not being able to tell her that he could fix it, because there’s nothing there to fix.  

She gives him a barely visible smile. It's just the twitch of her lips before she exits the room with a mumbled "come on". 

 

♦︎

 

Derek and Scott sneak out the back door terrace and settle onto the wooden steps. The backyard is a graveyard of fallen leaves and snapped twigs sticking out of the blanket of scarlet and amber. Derek closes his eyes, inhaling the crisp air, letting it wash across the walls of his lungs.

Scott chuckles.

"Well, that was definitely," he starts, bobbing his head from side to side in an indecisive motion,"something."

Derek leans his forearms onto his thighs, watching the wind play with the remnants of autumn leaves. It causes the bony twigs to sway with each blow, skeleton timber waving at the two of them. 

"That was them trying to keep it together, actually."

Scott lets out another bright cackle before letting his back lie on the frigid floor of the terrace. The boy is wearing another hoodie, Doctor Who’s TARDIS gracing the dark blue of the material. The two of them had bored the whole entire table to a coma when they’d started immersing themselves into a heated discussion about “Who’s you’re favorite Doctor?“. Needles to say, broccoli was flung against Derek's forehead.

Like so many other things in the past month.What the heck is up with his head and inanimate objects?

"Told you this was a good idea. They had like a ten minute girl talk about their shoes." Scott flings his hands into the air, mimicking their mothers’ gesticulations. 

"Your shoes are pretty. No, you’re shoes are pretty! No, your shoes are prettier!" he teases in some squeaky, screeching tone that’s actually horrifyingly accurate. Even Laura had rolled her eyes. Laura owns pink bunny eared, sparkly slippers. 

"I don’t know. I’m just happy for her. Ever since Stiles’ mom left with him she didn’t really have anyone around. Then she passed away and you know, the last year was pretty rough on all of us." 

The mentioning of Stiles and his mother awakens an uncomfortable feeling in Derek’s chest. It’s aching and miserable. He can’t ward off the images of the boy shivering in the his bathtub, sobbing and clutching at his exposed skin like that had been the only thing he had left.

It must’ve been one hell of a rough year. 

"We’re good match-makers." Derek finally breaks the unsettling silence. Scott turns his head to the side, his locks pooling around his face in a curly halo. He holds his fist up. Derek snorts when their knuckles crunch against each other. Of course Scott’s a fist-bump-dude.

Another comfortable silence mixes with the sounds of tumbling leaves and brushing branches above.

"It’s Stiles isn’t it?" Scott’s voice breaks through the barrier of backyard autumn harmonies. 

What the hell? 

Either this guy has been brought under grandpa Ted’s psychic influence in the course of the past two hours, or Derek is genuinely bad at making his face do stuff. Probably the first option. Derek has an odd appreciation for his grandfather being Professor Xavier’s long lost parallel-universe-brother. 

"Did he tell you?"

Derek doesn’t feel like galavanting around the freaking pudding at this point, might as well give in to the recommended direction of conversation. Scott grunts at that. His eyebrows shoot up, his hair line almost swallowing them whole.

"It’s pretty damn obvious without anyone telling me anything." 

Fine. Derek’s bad at controlling his face. He swears it’s his eyebrows. They have a mind of their own. They're like some detached bushy lifeforms sitting above his eye sockets. It's not his fault.

"Stiles doesn’t really tell me anything anymore. I mean, you know, not about -" Scott waves a hand into Derek’s face. He doesn’t really have any responses on stock as he watches Scott’s wobbly movements. The boy’s eyes are strained against the sky, pupils motionless as they fixate a spot on the cloudy vastness stretching out above their heads. 

"He’s my best friend in the whole wide world, don’t get me wrong, man. It’s just. I don’t know. Ever since he came back stuff just - changed. I guess loss does things to people. And you know about his dad right? So yeah. I get it. I mean, I know! My dad bailed on me when I was eight." he blurts. 

Derek knows what that feels like. He knows the pain that comes with being abandoned.

The distance in Scott’s eyes seems to expand, deepen with each gush of wind slashing through the backyard. Derek doesn’t know why he’s telling him all this. He guesses he simply needs someone to talk to, someone who will listen.

"He keeps to himself a lot. Like, we’ll talk at school and whatever, but it never gets past that point of small talk, if you know what I mean. And now he’s hanging with the wrong kind of crowd and it’s just - You’re not the only one he’s hurt." 

His last words are a jumble of strained letters bundled up into something Derek knows is bitten down pain. He's so bad with dealing with situations like these. He wishes he were the kind of guy who could come up with something kind and pleasant to say and maybe even bring up the courage to pat him on the back - but Derek simply stays inside the boundary he’s created between the two of them, too nervous to break through it.

"Stiles is," Scott scrunches up his face, struggling with his thoughts, trying to form them into words ,"Stiles. He’s complicated. Being friends with him is complicated and I mean, things can get really messed up. Trust me, man. I’d know. I’ve tried to help him. God, I’ve tried. But it’s him. It’s all him and he won’t let me. I guess what I’m trying to say is, that this is your chance to - I don’t know, get out?" he struggles, his eyes fixating Derek’s. They look large and sad and somehow disappointed. Derek doesn’t need to ask to know what he’s trying to say. 

_Get out._

The words sound harsh coming from someone like Scott. But isn't the truth always harsh? Harsh and heavy. 

"If something got between you two. I mean it’s easier to leave, you know? Derek, you just - don’t take this the wrong way, but you just don’t seem like the kind of guy who could handle him. I barely can and we’ve been best friends since we were in freaking diapers! I can’t leave. He’s my best friend. I’m in too deep, you know what I mean? I can’t leave. You can. I’d get out if I were you." he whispers. 

Derek avoids looking at Scott, not wanting that puppy pout to obliterate him into a million tiny pieces. It pains him to know what all those words feel like. 

But Scott’s wrong. Derek can’t leave. Not now. He wants to. He knows he should, but he just can’t and it terrifies him. 

Derek nods, nods until the bobbing of his head becomes a dull programmed motion he repeats over and over again. Scott eventually changes the topic to something harmless, pretending like all that didn’t just shatter Derek right through his very core.

Scott talks about Allison Argent and the amazing weed Danny Mahealani deals and all Derek can think about is bourbon eyes looking at someone else. 

 

♦︎

 

The following week zooms by, filled with exams and tests and late night cramming, fueled by coffee and red bull and grandpa Ted’s Yoda moments of intergalactic wisdom. Derek is thankful for his mother being far too preoccupied with Melissa to question him about the missing Polish Mystery in the Hale house. Even his sisters seemed to have completely dropped the topic.

Said Polish Mystery isn’t only missing around the Hale house, but even the school parking lot seems to lack the grace of its cryptic presence. Derek pretends like he doesn’t care. He’s almost slightly convinced by the desperate attempts of him trying to give up on staring at the empty parking spot that usually houses a very beautiful, jet black Lamborghini. 

But of course Derek cares. Derek will always care because it’s Stiles. It’s so incredibly ironic how he’d thought that staying away would be somewhat beneficial in order for him to keep up with his "big life plans" and that stupid fucking scholarship.

He doesn't remember when the thought of his brilliant, promising future turned into "stupid fucking scholarship".

And now that he is staying away, he can’t stop caring. He can’t stop giving a shit. And Derek’s giving lots and lots of metaphorical caring shits. The worst part is probably the fact that he cares this much for someone who doesn’t care much for him. Derek remembers the way Stiles had stared at him like he was just some guy he could seduce and when he’d gotten too impatient, he'd had found himself some other gullible idiot.

That’s all Derek is in the end. A gullible idiot. Derek wonders how many times Stiles Stilinski has the pulled the "I like your smile" line. It hurts thinking about it. Derek had - to some extent - felt somewhat special.

His Katelyn is starting to act up, but Derek doesn’t seem to have the decency to lock her up in her bitch-rage-cage. He will allow her the occasional indulgence of her freak out sessions.

 

♦︎

 

Isaac L. friday, 7: 12 p.m.

 

**Hey what’s going on? :(You didn’t show up to practice today**

 

Vernon B. friday, 7:35 p.m.

 

**How come you bailed? Coach needs to talk to you about the upcoming games**

 

Vernon B. friday, 7:46 p.m.

 

**Just a heads up, Erica’s probably going to call an emergency basement crisis meeting**

 

Erica R. friday, 7:52 p.m.

 

**EMERGENCY BASEMENT CRISIS MEETING AT 9, also bring popcorn. Boyd’s all out**

 

♦︎

 

"What took you so long?“ 

Erica is leaning in the doorway, her lilac nails curled into the rim of the thick wood. Derek holds up the popcorn packages. 

"Oh, right.“ 

Derek rolls his eyes and squeezes past her. He feels like he’s about to be suffocated by all the layers he’s cocooned his body into. Mothers are incredibly insistent when the weather reports call it the "coldest day of the season". Derek has two pairs of socks on. 

The others are already in Boyd’s basement, sprawled across beanbags and the inflatable river rafts. Boyd has two and they’ve been in his basement since the day his parents had given them to him for his 12th birthday. They probably had other intentions in mind than for them to be used as suitable cushions for emergency basement crisis meetings. 

The menu of the _Lord of The Rings_ is already flickering on the TV, the bright glow of the display the only source of light in the room.  

"Hey!" Isaac mumbles."You bring the popcorn?"

"Erica’s in the kitchen." 

Derek flings himself into one of the river rafts, cloaking himself with thick blankets, his head nestling into the pillows. Isaac cocks his head to the side, eying him intently. Derek gives him a small smile, a silent reassurance. He appreciates the way they’ve made the whole “emergency basement crisis meeting“ work. It’s existence is to simply enable them to be around each other whenever things spiral downwards. No intensive discussions about feelings or awkward trust games, just the mere act of being huddled around a basement, devouring mountains of popcorn and watching _Lord of the Rings_. It’s calming and somewhat of a consolation. Derek appreciates basement crisis meetings. He really does. 

Erica jumps down the flight of stairs, different sized bowls oozing with popcorn stacked onto her arms. She hands Derek the “popcorn tub“, a gigantic XXL tupperware that you only receive if the emergency basement crisis meeting was called upon for you. Which is why Derek digs in like there’s no tomorrow, due to him rarely being the popcorn tub receiver.

His life lacks drama. Usually. Karma has somehow set its astral sights on Derek’s humanly ass. He has the right to enjoy the popcorn tub. 

They seem to languidly huddle closer once the movie starts. Derek thinks it’s human instinct of some kind, trying to convey a sense of security and support without having to usher a single word. It’s the concept of being close to the people you care about.

The thought makes Derek think of Stiles. He remembers the way he’d always end up curled against his mother’s piano during their study sessions. Even without the patches of sunlight illuminating the way, he’d always be right there, nibbling on his pen, his legs tightly tucked against his stomach. He'd look so much younger. He'd look smaller, fragile and delicate. A child. 

Derek watches Frodo step across the line of the farthest point he’s ever gone from the Shire. Just like that. His eyes are gleaming a bright, electric blue, his fingers curling around the straps of his backpack as he sets off on his adventure to the Cracks of Doom. All because the tiny guy had told himself "Fuck it.". Derek lets his eyes roam away from the screen. He lies back onto the pillows, staring at the ceiling. The glow in the dark stars are scattered across the surface, shimmering a dull neon green. It's as if they're trying their absolute best to keep on shining, warding off the darkness with what little specks of energy they have left.

Fuck it. Fuck all of this. Fuck the universe and its cosmic discharge. 

Derek shoves the popcorn tub into Isaac’s lap, shuffles out of the bundle of pillows and blankets and stumbles towards the stairs. 

"I’m heading out." 

"What do you mean you’re heading out?! The movie just started!"

Derek ignores Erica’s shouting from the hallway as he squeezes his feet into his chucks, reaches for his jacket and slips into the night. It’s ice cold, the frigid air almost painful against his skin. His feet pound into the pavement of the driveway, his arms already reaching for the handle bars of his bike leaning against the mail box. In one swift movement Derek jumps onto the saddle, the soles of his feet meeting the pedals as he races down the street. His mind is one giant, two worded “Fuck it.“. That’s all it really is. Derek isn’t thinking about anything else, his thoughts completely revolving around those two words. He hammers them into his brain tissue, hoping the meaning will last until he’s made it to where he wants to be. Derek needs to get there without thinking. He needs to shut off his _Einstein_ for a few minutes and needs to channel his _stupid_. Lots of it. Because this is incredibly, embarrassingly _stupid_.

But, hey, Frodo didn’t give a crap when he was told to destroy an inanimate object, in order to put an end to the most powerful, destructive power in Middle Earth. Frodo’s a freaking hobbit. He’s three feet tall and he said “Fuck it.“

Derek can’t believe he’s currently using a fictional creature with colossal, hairy feet as a source of motivation. 

Well, fuck it.  

The neighborhood languidly transforms around him. Houses morph into mansions, front yards grow into pompous driveways, picket fences turn into walls and monstrous front gates. 

Derek comes to a skidding halt in front of the most familiar monstrous front gate of them all. He sucks in all the air his lung capacity will allow, letting the sharp intake of breath make his head spin viciously. Derek reaches for the number pad settled into the stone of one of the pillars. His hand wavers in the air right before the tips of his fingers touch the metal. He eyes the glowing digits shimmering between the spaces of his fingers, bright and electric blue. 

Frodo. Fuck it. 

Derek lets his fingers fly across the pad, rapidly punching the digits in with practiced ease. He hadn’t noticed the air still trapped inside of his lungs until the familiar buzz hums in his ear canals. Derek exhales until it feels like his chest is caving in on him, his shoulders slouching, pressing towards the ground. The gates open with a silent creek and Derek shoves his bike forward, gripping the rippled plastic of the handlebars with strained force. The house seems lifeless, it’s dark windows staring down at him like marble eyes, hollow and gloomy. The only room that is filled with a dim glow is the tower room. Stiles’ room. So, he’s home. Derek doesn’t know why he feels a tiny spark of tension firing up in his muscles. He should be relieved he’s at home. Derek thinks it might be the exact opposite.

He shakes his head in one speedy motion before fixating his eyes onto the gravel surface of the driveway, listening to the scrunching sound his sneakers make every time his soles crush against the stones. Derek moves around the house, clenching and unclenching his fisted fingers, letting his nails dig into the soft plastic with each spasm.

The terrace doors are open. Derek can’t believe he actually feels a little disappointed.

With a final sharp shake of his head Derek slides the glass doors to the side. The house is incredibly quiet, the soundless static haunting as he wanders past the entry hall and up the winding staircases, along the endless hallways and past door after door. 

And then he's right there, right in front of the ladder.

If this were a cartoon, Derek would have two miniature versions of himself sitting on his shoulders, brawling and screaming, trying to convince him of:

A: Fuck it

B: Get the hell out of the house you’ve just technically broken into, you massive idiot!

Derek is really feeling the latter. Frodo might just be a little out of his league. A little, a lot. 

What is he doing here again? Oh, yeah. He's currently spending his friday night pursuing criminal activity. It’s as if his common sense has finally overtrumped his erratic idiocy. 

This is not good. 

Derek is standing at the foot of the ladder to Stiles’ room. Derek is in Stiles’ house and it’s not for tutoring. Derek has a really hard time figuring out what his current purpose seems to be steering towards, because being sort - of - a - criminal is definitely not something he should further pursue. 

Derek’s pulse is racing. His sweaty hands are dampening the fingers he’s digging into the flesh of his palms. He really did not think this through. That had been the overall plan - having no plan. Derek hates not having a plan, no structure to go by, no guidelines to cling onto. The longer he stares at the chipped wood of the ladder, the more ridiculous he feels. Channeling his inner Frodo is definitely one of the most laughable things he’s ever let his brain convince him of doing. Or in this case, his heart. And isn’t that just one giant cliche. Again. Derek’s life is overflowing with squishy, pink, glittery cliches. 

Which is why Derek rips his eyes form the ladder and leans back onto the heels of his feet, his legs ready to shove him backwards, down the halls, past the ludicrous amount of doors and out of the terrace where he can just disappear. 

Then he hears him. It starts out as a discordant hum, but quickly morphs into a full blown, cacophonous catastrophe of a sing - along. Stiles sounds like he’s about to die of a heart aneurism. It’s bad. Not that Derek’s voice is anything close to celestial. By all means, Derek probably sounds even worse. Derek just doesn’t showcase his disastrous inability to hit the right notes. Stiles on the other hand couldn’t give any less shits, because the guy is belting out like he can. It’s like listening to some Icelandic bird bashing out mating calls. 

And for some weird, twisted reason, Derek leans forward, his hands curling around the bars of the ladder. Each step cranks up the sirens shattering inside his head. A screaming "Get the hell out of here", constantly trying to overtrump the pounding rhythm of "Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it.". 

His hand is reaching out, his fingers stretched outward as he gingerly places it against the cool surface of the trapdoor. He tenses up his muscles, preparing them for the upcoming weight. Derek nibbles on his bottom lip until the flesh is burning red and aching. Stiles’ belting has settled down to a dissonant hum.

Derek shifts his legs upward, his hands pressing against the trapdoor. Never has it been this heavy.  

Stiles is sitting on the red rug, cross-legged, his back facing Derek, hunched over something he can’t see. The guy has these ridiculously large headphones pressed against his ears, his frenzied hair peeking out of from beneath the thick headband. Derek can distinctly make out the beats pounding through the small speakers. Stiles is bobbing his head back and forth, the discordant hum even more prominent without the trapdoor between the two of them. Stiles is wearing one of his gargantuan sweaters again. The way the material slides off the side of one of his shoulders, exposing a stretch of freckled skin and scattered moles, is doing things to Derek. It's doing so many things, that he can’t help but stand in the middle of the guy’s room and blatantly stare at him.

Derek has scary stalker potential. It's an ability he truly isn’t proud of. Honestly, Stiles is sort of making this all far too easy - if Derek were a stalker. Which he isn’t. Of course he isn’t. He doesn’t even know why he’s pondering on a criminal activity consisting of the repeated following and harassing of another individual. 

Derek needs his Frodo back, because what the hell is he doing?

"Holy shit! What the fuck! What the fuck?! Derek, what the hell are you doing here?!"

The screeching squawk hurls Derek out of his trail of thought. Stiles has ripped the headphones from his ears, the headband hanging crookedly from his neck. He’s holding a pen in his hand, pointing it towards Derek as if he’s about to announce a fencing battle. His mouth is open, further incoherent curses tumbling across the rosy flesh, eyes wide, shimmering copper in the warm light of his desk lamp. He’s beautiful, even when he’s freaking out. 

Derek is beyond creepy. Derek needs to pull it the heck together, because Stiles is waiting for an answer. It's an answer Derek can’t quite give him. 

"Dude!"

Stiles bats the pen in front of Derek’s face. The motion is definitely not helping him morph his chaotic thought process into something comprehensible.

"You scared the shit out of me! How the heck did you get into my house?"

The boy doesn’t seem to have his voice fully under control yet. The slight remnants of occasional quivers are still cursing through the words.

Derek feels like a criminal.

"I -" Derek starts. Stiles head cocks forward, his eyebrows shooting up in a silent "Yeah?". 

"Terrace was open," he blurts. His voice sounds as close to okay as it possibly could in a situation like this - which is still quite far, but at least it wasn’t gibberish. Although it might turn into gibberish if Stiles doesn’t pull up that sweater. God, that shoulder.

"Fuck. I forgot to close that. Jesus. Dude!" Stiles flings his hands into the air, the familiar flailing distorting the wobbly movements.

"I mean, couldn’t you have like - I don’t know, called? Instead of creeping up on me in my god damned room?"

That does sound incredibly terrifying. Also, he has a point. This is the 21st century. People have phones. Frodo doesn’t have a phone. Yeah. Derek was channeling his inner Frodo. He can’t be blamed. 

"Gaaawwwd! So, apparently looking like a serial killer isn’t enough for you, huh?" 

Stiles chuckles. It seems completely and utterly out of place in all of this. Derek won’t even deny the fondness swaying with his words. The tease feels so normal, as if Stiles had forgotten about it all, about everything that has happened. It doesn’t last long.

As fast as the chuckle had bubbled up, it’s quickly swallowed back down. Stiles eyes harden. They seem to burn right through Derek’s and by the looks of the slight crease between his eyebrows, Stiles doesn’t seem all too amused anymore. 

"What the heck are you doing here, Derek?"

It’s hushed, but so intense it makes Derek want to stumble right back out of the trapdoor.

He doesn’t know what to say, wouldn’t even know where the hell to start if he did have a single clue. Derek’s brain powers full steam ahead, flipping through acceptable options for an innocent answer. None of them seem to cut it. None of them are what he really wants to say.

Isn’t this supposed to be the big moment? Isn't this supposed to be the moment in which Derek passes that line and walks across the farthest point he’s ever dared to go. It’s right there, metaphorically glowing neon red, urging him to take that one final step. All Derek has to do is say it. 

He cares about Stiles and the guy sort of stomped all over his heart. Derek feels so gullible for thinking that crushes have some sort of programmed system where they’ll always choose you when it comes down to it. Derek’s pissed off for being so naive, even though he knows he doesn’t live in some sparkly Hollywood chick-flick that ends in a musical number and confetti and bubblegum make out sessions. Derek’s so, so angry at himself. He’s angry, because this is the first time he’s ever felt like this, about anything in his 18 years on earth and it’s fucking with him.

He’s never been this unprepared. Why isn’t there some handbook for all of this, because Derek needs answers. 

"I forgot my pencil case on your table."

He wants to smash his knee into his forehead. That’s not being productive. Cheap lies aren’t going to get him across that line.

"At 10 in the night?!" Stiles scoffs, a baffled expression spreading over his tired features. 

"Yes."

Stiles stares at him for what seems to be for half an aeon, before he walks over to his desk and rummages through mountains of loose paper and sketchbooks. Derek swipes a hand across his face. 

Great job. Super, great job. Way to turn your life upside down. 

Stiles turns towards him, Derek’s pencil case clutched in one hand. He eyes the material, rolls it around in his palm before handing it over. Derek reaches out, trying to effectively avoid any bodily contact. The pencil case is heavy in his hand as if it’s weighing him down with its mere existence. In a way it is. 

"Thanks,“ he murmurs. Derek keeps his eyes strained onto the sharpie doodles leaking across the grey material. 

"Did you -"

"Yeah. I - I don’t know. It looked kind of sad. I funked it up a bit," Stiles mentions, a hand stretched over his head, scratching over the expanse of his scalp.

It’s a comic of Derek and his family flying through space on unicorns. Grandpa Ted is sitting on his unicorn the wrong way. 

He can’t help but let his scowl loosen up just the slightest bit. Stiles has no idea what he’s doing to his head. Derek feels like bleaching the hell out of the pencil case, filling it with rocks and dumping it into the depths of the nearest pond. But he also feels like putting it in a glass box and cherishing it until the day he dies.

This kid. 

Stiles is looking at his toes, his fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the hem of his sweater. Derek doesn’t know what to do next. The only thing he’s capable of thinking of is leaving. He sort of has to face the fact that he’s not a Frodo. Derek is always going to be simply Derek.

"Alright. Thanks. See you at school." 

Stiles’ head shoots up. His eyes a dull color wavering between red dust and burnt chestnut. There’s something so utterly distinct missing. Derek wishes he could crack a terribly awkward joke just to see those features brighten up. Just for a fleeting moment he’d like to see the corners of those lips curl upward.

"Yeah. Okay. See you around, I guess," Stiles mumbles. There’s a silence that follows, heavy with a million things unsaid. Derek grips the pencil case tightly, his palm morphing around the material bulging with pens and pencils. He bends down as his hands settle onto the warm floorboards, his legs disappearing through the trap door. 

"Okay, you know what? No! What the fuck?! You can’t just freaking show up in my room in the middle of the night, telling me you’re here because of your pencil case. And don’t you dare lie to my face, because dude, you’re literally - you’re so bad at lying. I mean, 'I forgot my pencil case'. Really?! I don’t get you!" Stiles fumes. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes wide, his hands thrashing through the air. Derek freezes. His heart plummets down a giant black hole cemented into his gut. 

This is it.

Stiles steps closer, his chest heaving. His mouth stretches and flexes as if he doesn’t know what to say next or how to say it. The boy groans through clenched teeth. It’s a frustrating, gurgling sound. 

"I never get you! One moment it feels like this is going somewhere and you’re remotely into it all - and then it just stops, because yeah, okay, I get it! You don’t like me like that, but you still have these fucking reactions to - to whatever the hell I do. Jesus! You’re hot and you’re cold and it drives me insane! You drive me fucking insane! And then you pull the breaks and here I am thinking this is all over, but then you pull this shit. I mean you’re standing in my room right now. God!“ Stiles frantically runs his hands through his hair, mussing it into every direction possible 

"Could you stop doing this to me? I really, really don’t need this, Derek. I really fucking don’t." 

Stiles' expression is pained and frustrated, and it’s so much worse than the blankness that had inhibited his features just moments before.

_You don’t like me that._

Derek doesn’t know how to process those words. He doesn’t have a single clue of how to process any of this. Everything is gone. His brain is completely offline. His heart is nothing but a thundering pain in his chest. His legs feel like giving up on him any moment and his hands are dangerously close to pushing him off the floorboards and shoving him down the trapdoor. He needs to say something. Anything. 

Stiles' mouth is a thin line, his eyes frantically scanning his features.

Derek doesn’t know what he’s looking for. There's nothing there. There's snothing left. 

"God!" Stiles barks. He rips his gaze from Derek, his eyes roaming around the room, flicking from one spot to another, his hands constantly plucking at the material of his sweater and scraping over his head. 

"Here you go again! Say something,Derek! Just fucking -" Stiles’ eyes are back on him, defeated and pleading. A jolt of movement flashes through Derek’s limbs. The next thing he knows he’s lurching forward, cornering Stiles against a wall, his palm slamming into the layered surface of drawings and posters and post-it notes. Derek relishes in the closeness, something he’s missed for far too long. Stiles is always so warm, his heat burning him right through the countless layers of clothing.

Derek can’t decipher the look in Stiles’ eyes. The erratic anger is replaced by a facade of blankness. It’s as if a ten foot, indestructible wall has erupted out of the ground, shoving itself into the little space between them. Stiles’ chest is rising and falling, his breath coming out in quivering inhales and exhales. Derek can smell him, the faint waver of cologne, smoke and this other distinct smell that is completely and utterly Stiles. It's musky, sweet and comforting. 

Stiles eyelids flutter, his features drastically changing back into the distortion of rage. 

"Say something!" he croaks. "Goddamnit, Derek! Whatever I do you won’t budge!" 

The boy lifts a fist and hits him. Stiles hits Derek right in the chest. It’s limp and weak, and it saddens Derek more than it should hurt him. He can’t think. He can’t move. He can’t say anything. It’s blank. His head is a vast blank landscape. There’s nothing left.

"Why won’t you budge?!" Stiles trembles, his fists pounding against Derek’s chest without abandon. Each jab seems to crack into the wall between between them. Each hit shatters him. Each blow forcefully wakes him up. Again and again and again. Derek feels like he’ll never be able to breathe, his lungs completely collapsing in on each other, deflated balloons clinging to the bottom of his ribcage. 

Derek’s hands snap forward, wrapping themselves around Stiles’ wrists, holding them in place. The boy’s hands keep on spasming forward, as if he can’t help it, as if he can’t keep the pent up anger inside of his head anymore, the rage oozing out of his fists. Stiles looks up, staring at Derek through winged lashes. 

"You slept with that guy on Friday, didn’t you?" 

That’s all he manages to say. That’s all he’d been capable of retrieving in the post apocalyptic wasteland that is currently his brain. Stiles' arms go limp, his wrists weighing Derek’s grip down. His eyes go wide, his expression incredulous. His mouth does this thing again, the silent stretching and flexing, a constant 'O'.

"What?" he stammers. "How do you even know about - Uh, yeah! I have a sex life, Derek. It’s not some fucking secret! It’s not like I’m going to drown myself in self pity when someone rejects me. I move on. At least I try to move on, because now you’re doing _this!_ Jesus Christ, stop messing with me!"

His voice is a shrill jabber. Stiles' forcefully rips his wrists out of their confinements, gingerly rubbing the flushed skin where Derek had held him tightly. He hadn’t meant to hurt him. He hadn’t even noticed how strong he’d been clinging to his flesh. 

_You don’t like me like that._

_And then you pull the breaks._

_Reject. Reject. Reject._

"When someone rejects you?" Derek repeats the words. They sound foreign on the tip of his tongue, uncomfortably surreal. It’s all right there. The red line is right there. Derek doesn’t want it to be. He wants to keep on acting like he has no idea. 

Stiles rips his eyes from his wrists and strains them against Derek’s. The amber irises are surrounded by bloodshot white. Derek doesn’t want Stiles to cry, doesn’t want to see him being this frustrated.

"What?" 

Derek takes a step back, his body not being capable of coping with the simmering heat burning his skin, sticking to it like velcro. He needs to keep on fighting the blankness in his mind. 

"You said 'when someone rejects me'."

Stiles shifts, his feet shuffling against the floorboards. Derek can make out the slight shaking of his head. Left, right, left, right. 

"Why? I tried to kiss you, you didn’t want to be kissed. By me. I got it. Loud and clear."

Stiles' hand comes forward pulling the sweater back onto his exposed shoulder. It slips back down almost immediately. He looks so small from where Derek is standing. It feels like he’s towering over the boy, his shadow swallowing him whole.

He wants to say something. He needs to say something. He has to pull it together and cross that fucking line.

"I’m so bad at this," Derek groans. He pulls his hands towards his face, his fingers slipping under the rim of his glasses, rubbing across his closed eyes. The pressure is a dull ache, keeping him from falling apart. 

"I wanted to kiss you. I really did. I’m just so bad at all of this." He gestures towards Stiles. The boy goes completely frigid.

"I don’t know how to deal with things like this. After the night at the lake it felt like you’d given up on trying to start some fling with me. You didn’t answer any of my texts so I -“

"Wha - I. Okay, first of all! I’m an asshole like that. Because I thought that night at the lake, was a fucking rejection, Derek! I don’t want to be around people I like that don’t like me back, because yeah, I’m a dick. And second of all, _fling?!_ " Stiles retorts. The anger is back, burning up around him, turning the room into a gigantic oven.

"Isn’t that what you wanted from me? With all those signals? It felt like some big game, like you were just constantly playing around with me. And when you thought it was over, you got yourself someone else!" 

"Are you freaking kidding me? Are you judging me for something that isn’t even true? It was never a game. Okay, yeah sure maybe at first, because I mean Jesus, it’s you! Derek who works at 7 - Eleven! It’s always you. I didn’t just want some fling. Do you know how weird that is for me? I go out of my freaking way to drive past 7 - Eleven like every Friday. I don’t do stuff like this. You just - god. You -" 

Stiles lets a frantic laugh lose. It sounds surreal. All of it sounds so surreal. 

"I hate you," he breathes. "I hate you so much, because I slept with some random guy and all I could think about was you. Shit like that doesn’t happen to me, but ever since you came along, it’s freaking Derek - central up in here 24/7!" The boy slams a palm against his forehead. "Derek, just tell me. Tell me what you’re here for!“ 

Derek can’t look at him. The sight of Stiles like this, makes his heart constrict, makes it shrivel up in his chest until it’s nothing but this tiny distorted raisin.

_It’s always you._

"Really? Why won’t you just say something, why -"

Stiles' babbling comes to a complete stop when Derek paces back, urging the boy’s spine against the wall. His whole entire body isn’t listening to the signals of his brain to "retreat, retreat, retreat". His hands clasp the boy’s face, his skin warm and smooth and everything he imagined it to be. He lets his thumb graze over the constellation of moles, the touch making Stiles’ eyelids flutter. Derek watches the amber glimmering behind the glistening sheen of left over tears, dusted with tiny sprinkles of gold. Their breathes wash into the little space between them, ragged, flickering and hot, urging Derek to close the distance. The tip of his thumb glides lower, reaching the boy’s open mouth. He gently brushes over the plush of his lower lip. His eyes trace the movement of his thumb, gingerly caressing the rosy skin, reveling in the feeling of every little ripple, every little gap, every little flutter of breath ghosting past the boy’s lips. That _other_ silence becomes their world. It’s heady and thick with a million unverbalized thoughts, overtrumping their heartbeats and the barely noticeable guitar strumming floating through the speakers of Stiles’ headphones. The boy shifts closer ever so slightly, their mouths mere millimeters away, tiny sparks of tension cursing through their muscles.

It feels like Derek is standing at the edge of a cliff, the anticipation building the longer he looks down into the depths, one step away from free falling. He can’t see what awaits him at the bottom, doesn’t want to know what awaits him beyond the abyss. His body leans forward, the soles of his chucks tilting upward, rolling over the edge of the cliff. A wave of adrenaline screams through his bloodstream, high voltage cursing through every inch of his veins. 

His lips press against Stiles’ and they're velvety and moist against his. It feels so much better than any fantasy he’s ever lost himself in. It feels so much more real. 

And then Derek is falling down past the cliff, soaring with the pull of gravity, tumbling and bashing through the weightlessness. 

Stiles hands curl into his forearms, pulling Derek closer, closer, closer until their bodies are flush against each other, their warmth leaking into their clothes, scraping over their skin. It's roaring and wild. Everything heats up, everything accelerates. The irregular thrumming of his heart morphs into a jackhammering tempo, their mouths start moving, lips brushing over lips, slotting against each other and constantly shifting. Stiles opens his mouth further, Derek’s tongue gliding against his, hot, moist and soft. It’s awkward and sloppy, his stupid glasses constantly in the way, but Derek couldn’t care less, because Stiles is right there, pressing his body against his, coaxing low groans from the bottom of his throat. The boy’s hands slide over his biceps, traveling over his back, fisting the hair at the nape of his neck. A soft whimper rolls across Stiles’ lips. The sound sends shivers through the planes of Derek's searing skin. He wants Stiles to make that sound again and again and again. Derek runs his hand along his spine, gliding over the plush material of his sweater, tugging his hips closer with his fingers pressing against the dip of his back. The friction is making the fireball in his chest burn lower, making it blaze down his innards and straight into his groin. His whole entire body is yearning for hot, sweet friction. 

It’s too much, the pressure too strong, the heat close to scorching. Derek loosens his grip, his lips gingerly letting go. Stiles’ lets out a low groan, insistent and begging. His fingers tighten into his hair pulling him back, back into the warmth, back into the free fall. Derek presses a small kiss onto the boy’s mouth, tasting the hint of a smile. He immediately leans back, not wanting to waste another moment without seeing it. Stiles’ eyes are dark, watching him through hooded lids, his mouth stretched into a small, lazy smile. Derek is infatuated with the way a trail of pink flush is spread across his cheeks, over the bridge of his nose, cursing through all those moles and freckles. His lips are a dark shade of red, slightly swollen and luring him back in. Stiles' hand comes forward, rearranging his crooked sitting glasses, pressing it up the bridge of his nose. There’s a moment of silence. All Derek can hear is their ragged breathing and the plucking of guitar strings strumming through the headphones.

"You’re such an idiot," Stiles croaks, his words warm and fond and so wonderfully wrecked. 

"Shut up," he counters, leaning his forehead against his, closing his eyes for a moment, smiling - like an idiot. His higher brain functions haven’t been switched online yet. Derek likes bathing in the afterglow of not thinking for once in his life. It’s uncomfortable, but so indescribably exhilarating. 

"I don’t know about you, but my brain is on drama overload. That was legit soap opera material. You have no idea how messed up my brain is right now. It’s literally fried. You fried my brain, Derek Hale."

Stiles’ head slumps against Derek’s chest, shoulders curling into him, heaving breaths ghosting over the material of his jacket. Stiles looks exhausted. Fighting with this guy is definitely going to be a handful. 

Derek inches closer, settling his chin onto the top of the boy’s head. His hair feels soft. Finally no guava hair gel.

"Speaking of something being fried, you owe me 'Snack Shack' fries. Like right now. Frustration and making out makes me hungry," Stiles muffles into his jacket. Derek grunts. He’s close to starving himself. He never got to finish the popcorn tub. 

"Only if you buy me a milkshake." 

The boy looks up, a warm grin spread across his exhausted features. It's like the first ray of sunshine fighting its way through the remnants of a thunderstorm.

Derek's head is inhibited by something far worse than a blank, post apocalyptic wasteland. He doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into, doesn’t know if this is good, or bad, or an unstable in between. The thought terrifies him, because for once in his life he’s not just simply Derek. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it begins! I have no clue how the last scene got so frustrating. Stiles just started freaking out and Derek kept on thinking about inner Frodo juju - and I just went with it. Sorry. So yeah. Finally some mush, mush for baby Derek (*ˊૢᵕˋૢ*)  
> I have my exams coming up, so the next few chapters might take a while, but I'll try my best to update as soon as I can!


	8. Idiot Bubbles & Party Crashing

It’s one of those moments where you wake up completely disoriented, unaware of anything around you. It's that moment of the unknown where for the blip of a split second you don’t know where the line between fantasy and reality starts and ends. Two worlds constantly leaking into each other until you slip back into either one. 

Derek is staring at Batman. The distorted bat shape is sluggishly sinking into his comatose awoken brain. 

Well, it’s Batman’s logo. There’s only one person Derek knows who is the - very proud - owner of a Batman logo pillow the size of a mini fridge. 

Something groans and grumbles against his chest, the sounds softly reverberating through the expanse of his ribs. It’s a pleasant bumble, gently coaxing Derek into the land of the living. He feels a sleepy smile stretch across his lips. Stiles is latching onto him like an octopus, his head nestled against his chest, his arms and legs tightly wrapped around Derek’s body. He’s warm and comfortable. 

Derek likes this, waking up in Stiles’ room, in Stiles’ bed with Stiles so close, flush against him, the most reassuring heat. Derek wants to wake up like this every single day. The feeling reminds him of that one song you can’t get tired of. No matter how many times you play it on repeat, it’ll always be familiar and pleasant.

Derek is still half asleep. The lack of higher brain functions makes his mind turn into a sticky, sweet, sappy 80’s rom - com. It’s always those stupid 80’s rom - coms. He blames his sisters and the middle position in the sibling hierarchy lacking any sort of power over choosing a movie on movie nights. 

After they’d returned from the “Snack Shack“ Derek had had every polite intention to ride back home, but it had started raining, and Stiles had practically climbed onto his shoulders, begging him to stay. And if Derek had agreed a little too hasty to be considered polite, then fine. Stiles is Derek’s soft spot. Everything about Stiles is his freaking soft spot. Especially when it comes to his exhausted - passed - out - coma - face. Derek had had to fight back the urge to sit next to the bedside table and just watch the guy drool all over his pillows. It’s a wonderful thing. His face is wonderful. Everything about him is wonderful. 

Katelyn is going all kinds of girly berserk. It’s like a glitter party up in his head. Derek doesn’t do glitter parties of any sorts, but Stiles Stilinski doesn’t seem to give his brain much choice.

Derek had stayed awake most of the night, tossing and turning and clutching at Stiles, as if he’d been afraid of losing him, as if he’d been afraid of him changing his mind about Derek the second the sun peeked through the curtains. 

But Stiles is here right now. He's as close as ever, as real as ever - drooling over his sweater and Derek couldn’t care less. He wants to stay here, right here in this bed with Stiles. It's a place where he doesn't have to think about anything else but this. All thoughts about the haunting chaos storming outside the windows is something he can forget for a few more moments. 

Preferably all day, if Stiles will let him stay that long. He doesn’t want to seem too clingy. Of course not. Derek seriously hopes he doesn’t subconsciously morph into the kind of person that lets his infatuation get to him. 

He just called it "infatuation". 

Fantastic. Now he’s slightly freaking out. So much for metaphorically keeping the storm out of his head. 

Derek's eyes scan the slice of grey peering through the gap of the curtains. A groaning thunder trembles through the structure of the house. He absentmindedly lets his arms mold around the concentration of heavy heat clutching against his body. Stiles is soft beneath his fingertips, his back expanding and retreating with each languid breath. 

Derek has never been in a relationship - or whatever the heck this turns out to be. If he's being completely honest, he's has never had these kinds of feelings for someone. He doesn’t know how these things work, how any of this works. It’s like sitting in front of a pop quiz, completely unprepared. It’s horrifying and thrilling all at the same time. 

"Mmmmh. Derek."

Stiles’ sleep disgruntled voice is probably the most attractive thing Derek’s ear canals have ever been blessed with. He wants to bundle the sound up and lock it into a special treasure chest in his brain. The boy shifts, nuzzling his cheek against Derek’s chest. It’s doing so many indescribable things to his insides. He’s currently picturing the most sappiest firework display thundering and simmering inside of his stomach. 

"You’re still here," the boy mumbles, stifling a yawn into his sweater. It sounds like a realization, as if Stiles himself had to make sure that Derek hadn't disappeared. 

"Still here," Derek grumbles into the boy's curly hair. He can make out the slight smell of spiced, fruity shampoo. It’s a pleasant smell. Derek buries his nose further into the softness of it, smiling at the way it tickles his skin. 

"We’re not leaving this bed. Like ever."

Derek contently hums at Stiles’ words. Nothing in the world has ever sounded that good. 

"Sounds like a plan," he mumbles against the boy’s skull.

"I know you like plans," Stiles teases, clutching at the material of Derek’s sweater, pulling himself closer, shifting against his - 

"Stiles?"

"Mhm."

The gruff sound makes Derek uncontrollably shiver, the hum making his skin vibrate.

"Could you just - maybe - you know. Shift?" 

He hopes his voice doesn’t sound as strained as it does against his own ears. Stiles goes completely still, a kick of tension cursing through his limbs. He pries himself off of Derek’s body, curling himself back into the sheets. He rolls onto the far end of the bed, wrapped tightly into some patchwork blanket cocoon.  

"Yeah. Sorry. Still half asleep. Forgot we’re two dudes with two dicks for a moment," he mumbles. His flushed cheeks peek through the mountains of blankets and pillows he’s buried himself underneath. Derek can’t help but think he looks a little flustered. Stiles never gets flustered. It’s adorable. 

Derek on the other hand has a full on party going on in his pants and it needs to be shut down if he wants that warmth back. The frigid air around him is slowly eating its way through his warmed flesh. He scoots towards the rainbow cocoon, pulling the sheets closer, dragging Stiles back against his chest. He keeps a safe distance between their torsos. All Derek currently wants is that warmth back. His arms wrap themselves around the boy’s waist, enabling him to tug him just the tiniest bit closer. Derek settles his forehead against the back of Stiles' skull, unconsciously burying his face into his hair, breathing in the musky shampoo and the comforting smell of _him_.

"Yeah that - yeah that works," Stiles murmurs, his voice a little more quiet and distant, as if he’s mere seconds away from dozing off again. 

The last thing Derek remembers is the soft pitter, patter of raindrops against the window panes and the steadying heartbeat of Stiles thrumming against his palm.

 

♦︎

 

The soft scratching of pen against paper languidly tugs Derek out of his doze. The scribbling washes into the distinct sounds of rain and thunder roaring outside of the house. 

How is it still raining? 

Derek couldn’t be farther from disappointment. On the contrary, it should rain everyday. 

Derek shifts onto his back, his forearm coming forward, trying to shield the light forcing its way through his closed eyelids. It's dipping the blank world into a peachy red. It's too bright. He doesn't like it. 

There's a slight jab in the space between his ribs. Derek lets a rumbled groan roll across his lips. He receives another jab. 

"Hey, Der. Can you move back onto your side?"

The low grumble intertwined with Stiles’ words is gone. He sounds awake. 

"Hey, buddy. Please?"

Another pattern of jabbing is scattered across Derek's side. He lets out a huffed snort. He’s ticklish. Manly ticklish of course. 

An eye cracks open, then another. He’s peeking through the gap of his forearm. The curtains are pulled wide open, the gloomy grey light seeping through the droplet - stained windows. Stiles is leaning against a pillow he’d settled between his back and the headboard. He’s intently eyeing Derek over a sketchbook, nibbling on a pen, his colossal headphones loosely hanging from his neck. The boy is giving him a small smile. His hair looks exactly the way it does when he’s at school. Derek had always thought it was some sort of intentional look - like - you - rolled - out - of - bed fashion trend. It turns out, Stiles literally just rolls out of bed and into his car. Derek smiles back. The thought of seeing Stiles like this, seeing him all casual and relaxed and in his bed, is a beautiful thing. 

Stiles being the first thing Derek sees after waking up is an even more beautiful thing.

"God, I like you like that," Stiles mumbles, his teeth quickly catching the pen, letting the tip slip across his flushed lips. Derek immediately looks away. The reflexive motion seems to be programmed into his brain, but he unabashedly lets his eyes trail back towards his mouth the moment he realizes he gets to do this now. He gets to look at Stiles as much as he wants to. The thought seems so out of place, so bizarre in his head. His fantasies have never been capable of giving him this. The warmth of reality. 

Derek reaches out, letting his fingers lightly graze over the boy’s ankle. Stiles is wearing neon orange socks. Derek doesn't hate the bright neon as much as he usually does. He lets the tip of his index finger trace indecisive little patterns into the material. Derek loves reality. 

"I’m seriously enjoying this. You have no idea, but you need to get back onto your side and put that cute little sleepy face back on," Stiles orders, rolling his ankle around in Derek’s loose grip. 

"My cute little sleepy face," Derek repeats, intentionally settling a scowl onto his face. 

"Ugh. That totally works for me just as much. Now move back over there and just close your eyes. It’s okay I can just change the eyebrows on this. Pas de problème.“ 

He taps the tip of the pen onto the sketchbook. Derek leans forward wanting to sneak a peak. Stiles flings his arm into the air, swaying the sketchbook high above his head. There's a sticker of Captain America's shield on the cover. Derek watches the way it reflects the dull glow of the light seeping through the window.

His scowl deepens. Stiles burst out in chuckles. It’s kind of nice knowing that the first laugh he’s heard today is coming from none other than Stiles. 

"Intensity intensifies," Stiles states, his voice dramatically cursing low in his throat. "Here’s something crazy. Have you ever pictured yourself without eyebrows? Like if you just shaved them off, you’d probably look so much less evil!“ 

Derek laughs. The bizarre thoughts floating around this guy’s head are unbelievable. He imagines the inside of Stiles’ right side brain to look like a sparkly, magical mush of whimsical chaos.

"Food for thought."

"You’re so weird," Derek grumbles, settling back onto his side, his fingers not leaving the contact of Stiles’ ankle.

"Oh, says Mr. I - have - a - picture - of - Charles - freaking - Darwin," Stiles teasingly retaliates. 

"Portrait."

"The fact that you say that makes it so much more weird. Just be happy I like you more than pizza. Now close your eyes and don’t move."

Derek lets his fingers brush against the tip of his foot. He feels the muscles slightly tense up beneath his touch.

"I said no moving!"

A trembling giggle curses through the boy's words, his toes vigorously trying to wiggle Derek's fingers away. It just makes Derek clasp his ankle a little tighter. 

He can’t help it. He can’t wrap his head around the thought of him being able to do this. Touch Stiles. He loves the way each movement of his fingers coaxes out even the slightest jolts of tension. It’s riveting being able to do this, to make him react. 

Stiles eventually stops retaliating. Derek intently watches the way his mouth twitches, feels the shivers under the material of the sock. He doesn’t close his eyes. No matter how many times the boy flicks his finger onto his forehead, he keeps them open as long as he can until his eyes are burning, threatening to spasm closed on their own. Without Derek’s glasses Stiles is a little blurred. The outline of his features are washing into each other, colors of skin and hair leaking. Stiles’ nose is slightly scrunched up, his eyes carefully following the movements of his pen. Every time Stiles’ amber eyes skim over the page of the sketchbook and settle onto Derek's face, it sends a wave of goosebumps across his skin, a lingering prickle that he oddly enjoys. It’s the way the boy seems to be touching him without physically doing so. It’s the mere thought of ghosting caresses brushing over his own body, gliding across the slopes of his features, over the landscapes of his limbs, no curve, no dip left untouched. Being drawn by Stiles is incredibly intimate.

Derek’s hand goes still and simply holds onto the boy’s ankle. He doesn't move a muscle, just carefully observes. Stiles is completely lost in what he’s doing.

He’s never seen Stiles so utterly concentrated. There’s no fidgeting in his constant moving posture, no open mouth or fluttering eyelashes. All Derek can see are quiet limbs and roaming eyes. It’s a stark contrast to yesterday night, to the shouting and the frustration. 

Derek’s mind starts drifting back to their first tutoring session. 

_My mom was an artist too. That’s the only thing that actually stuck._

He remembers the way the boy’s eyes had roamed across the walls of the room, hesitating just the slightest bit on the portrait standing on the lid of his mother’s piano. Stiles probably feels closer to her with a sketchbook wresting on his lap. Derek knows it might just be his imagination acting up, knows his theories tend to go a little overboard when he interprets anything and everything into Stiles’ every movements. He can’t help it. Not when it’s Stiles. 

Derek’s eyes flick across Stiles’ legs, peeking at the frame of the portrait. From where he’s lying it’s an obscured ball of dark metal engulfing a bright center. Stiles had never told Derek that the woman in the picture is his mother, but Derek simply knows. He can vividly recall the freckles and the familiar smile that quirks the tiniest bit more to the right than to the left. 

Derek slightly tightens his grip around Stiles’ ankle. He wants to keep him close for as long as he can. He wants this wonderful silence to last. He never wants Stiles’ eyes to stop raking over his body. He never wants Stiles to look anywhere else. 

It’s like they’re in their own little bubble. It’s warm and temperate and filled with nothing but the scribbling of a pen and the dribbling of raindrops. Derek does forget the world for a while.

♦︎

 

"Oh my god!" 

Laura is sitting at the kitchen island, letting her fork clatter into a bowl of something that looks like a strange mixture of a blended taco and spit soup.

"Oh my god! Mom, get the camera! Derek’s smiling! Legit teeth and everything!"

Derek hadn’t even noticed he’d been smiling. How the hell do people not notice that? 

Talia skitters into the kitchen, Laura’s bunny eared slippers stuttering to a stop when she catches sight of Derek. She’s holding the family camera in one hand, an eager smile plastered onto her face. 

"No, stop! It’s gone. He looks super pissed off now."

Derek rolls his eyes and makes his way to the fridge. As much as he’s currently trying to scowl he knows it won’t last long, if he hadn’t even noticed he’d been freaking grinning. His brain feels all sorts of messed up, as if it has been completely rewired during the past few hours.  

"Derek, we need at least one picture of you smiling. The pictures of you in the hallway always look so - "

"Like you’re about to kill ten puppies," Laura deadpans, flinging her fork into his directions. 

Derek grunts, dodging the Juice - Jabber. He’s been getting increasingly better at reflexively whirling to the side. The fridge is full of Laura’s Pickled Mustard Greens and her weird Soy Puffs. Honestly, vegan food is a total buzzkill. Derek closes the fridge having lost his appetite.

"Was the sleepover at Boyd’s place really so fantastic?"

Laura scrutinizes him suspiciously, her sharp emerald eyes scanning each an every movement of his features. Derek immediately heads out of the kitchen. Laura is capable of calling bullshit faster than grandpa Ted can dodge the Juice - Jabber. It’s pretty indescribably fast. Derek is considering the possibility of his grandfather being a supernatural. He is really, really considering it.

"You’re not off the hook, Der!"

"Laura, leave your brother alone."

"It’s not my fault he’s obviously hiding something!"

And that’s his cue to leave. Apparently Laura’s skills at deducing bullshit have drastically improven in the past few months. It's either that, or Derek’s just really bad at controlling his eyebrows. It’s probably the latter. He might actually consider just shaving them off. 

The odd thought hurls him back into the memories of colossal sweaters, neon orange socks, and burnt pancakes. He’s probably smiling like an idiot, but he can’t help it. It’s like he’s still trapped inside that little wonderful bubble, it’s thin walls distorting the world into a beautiful blob of rose - colored _everything_. 

Derek shoves his bedroom door closed. He leans his back against the cool wood, letting his legs give in to the weight, as they lower him onto the floor. His head is one giant brass top, spinning around and around and around, revolving around nothing but freckled, pale skin and Bambi eyes. 

Derek doesn’t know if he should really keep on enjoying the copious amounts of gooey feelings. They keep him from thinking straight, falter the way he perceives the world. Yesterday was scary. Today was terrifying. It feels like his brain has been offline for 24 hours straight. It feels like he hasn't been _Derek_. Not _being_ Derek is something Derek is completely unfamiliar with. Not _being_ Derek horrifies him. 

His brain is carefully prying itself out of the grasps of the pink haze and all he can see is a tiny, dull, grayish blob of doubt. Derek slips his glasses from his nose, squashing his palms against his eye sockets. He hates being a thinker. He hates the way he questions every little twitch, every little glitch of the universe until he’s sprawled across his bedroom floor convincing himself of never simply taking things as they are. That’s not how life works. That’s not how the world works. Nothing simply falls from the sky and straight into your lap. Everything is debatable. Isn’t it? 

Derek lets his spine slide lower until his skull plonks against the floor. He hates _being_ Derek again.

♦︎

 

Derek has no idea what he’d expected. It’s the big moment. Derek doesn’t know how to deal with big moments. If he had a clue, he wouldn’t be awkwardly shuffling his chucks against the pavement of the school parking lot, trying not to stare at the jet black Lambo skidding and screeching into its usual spot. It’s a mystery of how the car still manages to look brand new with someone as reckless and giddy as Stiles sitting at the wheel. Sitting in the passenger seat is a roller coaster ride on its own. A blood curdling, horror roller coaster ride.

"Hale! Where the hell did you run off to on saturday? You never answered any of our texts." 

Shit. Derek had been so concentrated on trying to act casual, he’d completely forgotten the rehearsed excuse he’d prepared in order to make it all up to Erica. Erica is one hell of an insistent person. If Derek doesn’t have any acceptable arguments, he’ll be viciously tormented for eight hours straight until he spits out the truth. Derek isn’t prepared to tell anybody the truth. Derek isn’t even prepared to let the truth sink in. 

"We we’re really worried! What happened? Hey!" 

A hand is being frantically waved into his face. Derek doesn’t have enough remnants of usable vocabulary left in his head to whip up something that will still Erica's insistent hunger for the truth and sound coherent at the same time. It’s a useless chaos of nothing up in his head. 

Stiles is stumbling out of his car. Derek has no idea how people 'stumble' out of cars, but the boy manages to do so every single time. Seeing Stiles with his mussed up guava-gel-hair, his tight uniform and his winter coat is quickly turning the boy back into this unattainable, unreachable fantasy.

Stiles’ eyes roam the other side of the parking lot, an unlit cigarette clamped between his smiling lips. When he catches sight of Derek his smile widens into something that makes his brain short-circuit. He feels the blood rushing through his ear canal, the twitch of adrenaline cranking up the tempo of his pulse and clamming up his palms. Stiles lifts his arm and waves. Derek internally sighs at the sight of it. The smiling and the waving is back to gracing its brilliance onto the concrete expanse of the school parking lot. Derek tries his best to smile back. Each limb of his body is a disorganized jumble of flabby muscle, not managing to translate the commands of his brain into any movement whatsoever. 

Stiles is heading towards them, hands dug deep into the pockets of his coat. His eyes are nailing Derek's head into place. They seem to be strained against nothing but him. 

"Hey," Stiles mumbles around the cigarette between his lips, his hot breath coming out in foggy clouds. It’s a low and slightly gravelly sound that catapults Derek back to yesterday morning. Stiles sounds like he just woke up. Derek has no idea how the mere thought of that makes his skin flood with a familiar prickly rush of heat. He can't be turned on in the school parking lot. That’s all sorts of inappropriate. The incredibly strong urge to kiss that cheeky grin off of Stiles' face until he’s flushed, swollen and begging, is just as inappropriate. 

Stiles is still staring at him, his eyes gleaming their usual bourbon glow. Derek feels like he wouldn’t mind drowning in bourbon, letting it suffocate him and drag him down to the depths of whisky oblivion. 

"Well, hello there. Stiles." Erica snorts and kicks Derek in the shin. 

"Uh, hi," Derek chokes out. Words have never been this difficult. 

Another heated silence follows consisting of unabashed ogling and gibberish thought processes. The shrill chime of the bell hurls Derek back into reality. For once it doesn’t seem as bleak and terrible as it usually does. It’s still a little terrifying, though. Derek can deal with terrifying. He’ll have to. He wants to. 

"Alrighty then! We have to go to class. Bye!"

A vice - tight grip snaps around Derek’s bicep and before his brain has time to properly recuperate the workings of acceptable social norms, he’s being bluntly dragged towards the school entrance. 

Stiles blurts out a laugh, all the while waving like an idiot. Derek waves back like an idiot. Being idiots is kind of fun. 

Derek doesn’t take control over his own stumbling feet until Stiles turns on his heels and heads towards the prep school entrance. He immediately yearns for his molten chocolate stare. Derek should seriously consider writing down all the words he’s capable of using to describe those eyes. It’s ridiculous. He’s being ridiculous.  

"Der! Snap out of it!"

Erica’s grip around his arm tightens as she pulls him through the doors. Derek swiftly pries her manicured fingers from his bicep. They’re a bright orange. And that just reminds him of socks. Neon orange socks. Stiles in bed with neon orange socks. 

"Okay spill. One whole week you guys are pretending like you don’t exist -"

"Wait how do you -"

"I have eyes! Also, you’re so painfully obvious about it!" she retorts. One of her fingers comes up to brush his slipping glasses back up his nose. 

"So, that’s were you were on Saturday."

Erica flashes him one of her evil little smirks, flipping a tangle of curls over her shoulder. 

"What are you talking about?" Derek tries to keep his voice in check. Trying to translate the gibberish in his head back into comprehensible English is using up all the concentration his embarrassingly mushy brain has to offer. 

She screeches, jumping up and down like she’s at an Urban Outfitters sale. It can get scary. 

"Okay, okay, okay!" she shrieks, a giant beaming smile tugging at the corners of her ruby red mouth.

"I won’t tell the others anything. I promise." 

"What are you even -"

"Oh my god, Derek! You’re face is so adorable right now!"

"Shut up."

"It’s so adorable!"

"Shut up."

 

♦︎

 

Isaac is already bundled up in one of the inflatable river rafts when Derek shuffles down the stairs. His blonde curls are peeking out of the blanket burrito he’s buried himself into.

"'Sup," the boy muffles. 

"Hey." Derek snorts, settling next to the burrito bundle.

"Is he here yet?"

"Who’s _he_?"

"Stiles."

_Stiles_. 

A wash of warmth accumulates between his shoulder blades and mingles with the hair at the nape of his neck. The mere thought of Stiles makes Derek feel like he’s about to lift off into space and every universe beyond.

"He’s coming?" 

He hates the way his throat feels like raw sandpaper. 

"Yeah. Erica invited him."

Derek rolls his eyes at the TV screen. Of course she did. Ever since she’d figured out that there is - well - "something" going on between Stiles and him, she’d been constantly urging him to go over to the boy and "flirt". Every single encounter had been moving more and more into the territory of painful awkwardness. For the past week Derek and Stiles have been immersing themselves into the most heated staring competitions, chasing them after with goofy smiles and ridiculously copious amounts of texting. Derek doesn’t identify with the "chain - texters" of this generation, as Erica likes to call them (herself). Derek is the kind of person who will write a text or two, but he tends to end the conversation as quickly as possible. It’s like ripping off a bandaid as fast and as painless as possible. Stiles on the other hand, has made him bang his Nokia against his forehead in English class. Repeatedly. His texting abilities are borderline terrible when it comes to Stiles. Everything Derek has to offer mentally and physically is borderline terrible when it comes to Stiles. 

Derek's nervous to say the least. He's full blown Katelyn-can’t-even nervous. The past few days have been nothing but harmless signals of affection from across the colossal concrete distance of the parking lot. There's been no touching, no kissing. He can’t keep it together. He can’t think straight, because he’s itching to _touch_. 

The thing is, Derek’s not the kind of person who enjoys to bathe in the attention of others. Meaning, his friends have no idea. Except for Erica. Derek blames his eyebrows for that. He’s been blaming his Hale - brows for a lot of things lately. Cuddling up to Stiles like he had last weekend, seems to be something he wouldn’t be able to do here. The mere thought of that memory feels so far away, almost ungraspable. Derek wants it back. He unknowingly lets his fingers curl around an ankle, holding on tight. He really wants it back, no matter how much he doubts himself.

 

♦︎

 

"Bonsoir! I come baring gifts my children!"

Derek can distinctly make out the giggle of Stiles’ childish laughter ringing from the staircase. His body goes frigid. His fingers are the only things moving. They're dancing with the light tremble of anticipation. Derek seriously hopes it isn’t going to be like this every time. The fiddling, and the prickling heat curling down his spine is a little too much for his brain to handle. And his brain is capable of handling the Riemann hypothesis. It’s shameful. 

Two neon green smudges tumble down the flight of stairs. It’s comforting to see Stiles in one of his giganto sweaters, the material lose and constantly shifting around each movement the boy makes.

Stiles' eyes flick into place. Derek likes to call it that, because every time either of them merely look at each other they don’t look away. They're eyes are "flicked into place". 

"Heyho." Stiles smiles. Derek could never get tired of that smile. He likes the way it warms up his chest with a pleasant glow.

"Hi." 

Stiles opens his mouth. His chest fills itself with a bundle of air, but before it slips back past his lips, the boy lurches forward and tumbles down the rest of the steps. Reese's Peaces go flying through the air.

"Dude. Boyd. Sick basement!" he shouts, his eyes stuck to the constellation of neon stars etched into the ceiling. 

Derek immediately jumps onto his feet, pacing towards the body sprawled across the floor. Stiles lets out a snort when Derek bats an orange packet off of his forehead. 

"Hi," Stiles whispers with an amused grin.

"Hi."

"I take smooth entrances to the next level."

"And way beyond that."

"Why are we we whispering?"

"I don’t know. You started it."

Derek reaches out a helping hand. Stiles’ fingers grip his, their palms meeting. The boy's hand feels warm and dry in his. It feels weird touching him again. It feels like Derek is slowly being pulled back into the bubble he’s been missing for a whole entire week. 

Derek heaves him up, his eyes stuck to Stiles’. He knows he’s probably ogling, but it’s unashamed. Derek wants to untangle their fingers when the other boy is back on his feet, but Stiles clasps his hand tighter, tugs him a step further towards him, tugs him a few inches further into that bubble. It’s an eternity of heated staring. Derek feels like pulling him closer, roughly closing that little distance and slamming him into the nearest wall. Stiles features start to change just the slightest bit, but before Derek has time to identify the fleeting twitch of facial muscles, Stiles clears his throat, letting his hand go. 

It’s cold. Immediately cold. 

"Are those _boats_?"

Stiles quirks an eyebrow, a finger pointing at the raft Isaac is currently burrowed in. 

"Inflatable river rafts," Boyd’s gravelly voice answers. His heavy footsteps pound through the wood as the boy appears at the top of the stairs, a pair of slim legs wrapped around his torso. Erica is shooting Derek her most feral grin, over the left shoulder of her boyfriend’s neck. Derek simply glares back, tugging his eyebrows into a scowl. The girl isn’t phased one bit, giggling into Boyd’s ear.

"Wow. That’s like the best idea ever! How are we not funding this?" 

Stiles slips past Derek, his fingers swiftly grazing his wrist before he’s flinging himself onto the second river raft. 

"Awesome," he sighs, his mouth flexed into a content grin. "Awesome," he repeats, catching Derek’s stare. The smiley - wink that Derek receives sets the world on fire. 

 

♦︎

 

Derek doesn’t pay much attention to  _The Hobbit_ that's currently dipping Boyd’ television into kaleidoscope CGI landscapes. Partly because he can’t get over the fact that Doctor John Watson is Bilbo Baggins and partly because Stiles has dragged his hand into his lap, fiddling with his fingers, tracing his nails across every crease and dip they encounter. Derek doesn’t have enough functioning braincells to understand anything going on around him, anything but Stiles holding his hand. It’s driving him insane not being capable of doing anything. His head is dipped into sensitivity overload, his mind a constant jittery, nervy mess, plaguing him with the fear of his clammy hands and the others noticing. He hates his brain, truly, thoroughly abhors it. 

"I need more popcorn.“

Stiles abruptly lets Derek’s hand go, plopping it into the greasy - very much half full - popcorn bucket. The touch of his fingers is a lingering feeling. Derek wants it back.

The boy lifts himself onto his feet, tiptoeing over the others sprawled across the basement. It's a minefield of bodies, popcorn and mini pillow forts. 

"Do you want us to pause the movie?"

"Nah, it’s alright. I've seen it already." 

Stiles hesitates at the foot of the staircase. He’s fiddling with the wooden newel cap of the hand railing, shooting Derek these looks. His eyebrows start to do this jiggly motion, his head cocking forward. Derek can’t decipher the silent movements of his mouth. Stiles lifts his hands into the air, molding his fingers into something that Derek has no idea of what it’s supposed to portray. The boy lets out an exasperated huff, letting his arms flop against his sides. 

"Derek. Because it’s our popcorn bowl, would you please assist me?"

The way Stiles stiffly annunciates every single word makes Derek feel even more insecure. Erica shoots him a smirk. Stiles flicks his hand into the air, before racing up the stairs, low thuds fading out of the room. Derek follows suit, clasping the bowl, filled with more than enough popcorn, under his arm. 

Stiles is leaning against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed in front of his chest. His right eyebrow is twitching. 

"Dude!" the boy practically screeches, coming dangerously close to Erica’s shrieks of terror. 

Derek shoves the popcorn bowl into his face. 

"We have enough popcorn," he states, cocking his head towards the bowl. 

Stiles mouth goes slack. His features loosen into an incredulous expression, mouth hanging open in a tiny 'o'. His lips twitch as if he’s fighting for control of his own vocal cords. 

"Dude!"

Derek shrugs his shoulders. 

"I was giving you signals!" Stiles bats the popcorn bowl away with an amused grin. "Make out signals!"

"Make out signals," Derek repeats. "How was I supposed to know that those weird eyebrow stuff were make out signals?"

"I wasn’t only doing weird eyebrow stuff! You were supposed to be all like 'Oh, I do apologize for the inconsiderate timing of my bladder, but I must excuse myself to the lavatory'."

"Who talks like that?"

"Not the point here, Derek!" Stiles flings his hands above his head before letting them flop against his forehead. "And okay. Fine. You’d probably just man - grunt."

"What’s a man - grunt?"

Derek settles the popcorn bowl onto the counter. Stiles is looking at him like he’s mutated into some pod person.

"That thing you do when you don’t feel like talking. You don’t feel like talking, like ever, so yeah, you man - grunt," Stiles states matter-of-factly. 

"I don’t man - grunt."

Derek rests his palms against the surface of the kitchen counter, caging Stiles in. He watches Stiles’ eyelids flutter just the slightest bit and he knows being this close to each other isn’t leaving either one them unaffected. 

"How did we get from hot make out sessions to man - grunts?!"

"You were the one who brought it up."

"You were the one who didn’t get my signals!"

"I don’t think anyone would’ve been capable of understanding those 'signals'."

"Oh my god, you’re infuriating!"

"You’re terrible at signals."

Stiles snakes his hand up to his face, ripping the glasses from his nose and theatrically flinging them onto the kitchen counter. Derek knows what’s coming next, feels the painful anticipation eating at his brain. 

"Shut up and kiss me like you want to get punched," Stiles breathes. 

It’s like Derek’s being flung into a raging, scorching pit of fire. Stiles’ fingers curl into the hem of his sweater, pulling him closer until Derek swallows the boy’s hot little breaths into his mouth. There’s an agonizing moment of uncertainty and overthinking when their teeth painfully knock against each other. His brain starts over analyzing every clumsy movement, but then Stiles chokes out one of those little whimpers and Derek’s being flung into the free fall all over again, adrenaline roaring past his ears, his insides contracting and releasing, over and over again. It’s dizzying and intense and wonderful. Stiles’ lips are moist and soft, gliding over the expanse of Derek’s eager mouth. The boy leans forward, clinging to the back of his jacket, his knuckles grazing over the skin of his lower back. The featherlight touches feel incredibly heavy. The soft caresses are digging into Derek’s skin, viciously burying themselves into his flesh. Derek can’t help but shove the boy against the kitchen counter, earning himself a breathy yelp. It’s fuel to the fiery haze he’s lost himself into. It’s blazing and dark red, the colors dancing behind his eyelids.

Derek doesn’t feel like himself. He’s not thinking, not caring. There’s nothing else but Stiles, twitching and gasping under his touch. Derek’s hands dig into his sweater, letting them scrape lower and travel over the rough material of his jeans. He grips the back of his thighs, swallowing Stiles’ moan, letting the sound travel down his throat and clash against his own low groan. He lifts the boy onto the counter, curling his fingers into the crook of his knees. They're something stable, something he can hold onto. And when Stiles lets out another one of those sweet, sweet whimpers Derek roughly pulls him forward, their groins grazing against each other, the contact sucking his blood flow down into the warmth of his nether regions. Derek feels Stiles’ heels dig into the flesh at the back of his legs, forcing him even closer, yanking him further into the infatuating heat. He can distinctly make out the feeling of the hardening line of Stiles’ jeans pushing against his own, pulsating and sweltering. It’s like his body moves on its own, the insistent pressure tempting Derek to snap his hips forward. The jolt of friction accumulates sizzling stars in his vision. He does it again, and again until Stiles meets every little movement with a languid roll of his hips. The pleasure boils hot and heavy in the tight constriction of Derek's jeans, urging him to grind harder, faster. Stiles’ low moans taste sultry against the pad of his tongue. They're mixing with the salty lingering taste of popcorn. His senses are heightening, his groin growing more and more sensitive to the grinding friction, his ears rushing with nothing but the white noise of adrenaline. It’s too much to hold back. It's too hot for his body not to combust. His hips snap upward one final time.

Derek unfurls himself from the heavy grasp of Stiles tongue, burying his face into the crook of the boy’s neck before he’s coming in hot red flashes, breathing in the musky smell of cologne and smoke. His hips stutter and twitch against the heat of Stiles as he grinds the orgasm out. 

Derek’s mind goes completely blank as the back of his lids flicker in a fading white flash. The silence is incredibly loud. The battering of their hearts and their heaving breaths seem to be roaring in his ears while the remnants of adrenaline are thrashing past him. 

"Holy shit." 

Stiles' voice grumbles dark in his chest, broken words climbing up his throat.

"Did you just - "

Derek buries his face deeper into the crook of his neck. His cheeks feel like they're blazing. 

Derek just came in his pants. He just came in his pants. The obliterated pieces of his shattered world start to slowly fall back into place. It's a place where he just came in his pants. He wants to hide in the crook of Stiles neck. Preferably forever. 

There’s a sharp jab that painfully surges through the side of Derek’s ribcage. He grunts. Man - grunts. 

"You totally deserve a punch for that. That was so - Jesus Christ, Derek." 

The way Stiles says his name makes him want to rut against him all over again. Shamelessly. 

He feels a warm, comforting pressure against the sides of his head. Stiles is tugging him in front of his face, reaching for Derek’s glasses and carefully slipping them back onto his nose. 

But before he has a chance to get a good look at the small smile mere inches away, Stiles is flopping his forehead against his shoulder. Derek grumbles at the way his soft guava-gel-less hair tickles his jawline. 

"Okay. If we don’t make some more popcorn right now, I’m going to climb you like a fucking tree. I seriously don't want Boyd’s kitchen to go through that kind of shitstorm. Who the hell knew you could be so - You’re making it so hard for me to stay classy!"

The words force the lost heat right back into Derek’s groin. He feels like making a huge, fucking mess out of Boyd’s kitchen. He feels like completely disregarding the fact that he used to eat PB&J’s on the kitchen counter just a few inches away from where Stiles is sitting. _Sprawled_ would be the more appropriate word.

Sprawled and debouched.

Once he catches a glimpse of the obvious bulge in Stiles’ pants, it’s all Derek can see. Stiles one beautiful, sultry invitation. Derek is throwing every decent inch of him out the window and flinging himself into some heated party crashing. Before he can give into the incomprehensible warnings his brain is hurling towards his muscles, his hands are surging forward, groping Stiles’ shaft, palming the pulsating member. Derek doesn’t even have time to think about how clumsy his touches are, how his hands unsurely tug at his groin. All he can feel is the hot and heavy flesh through the rough material of the jeans. The feeling of it against the skin of his palm is chasing away any lingering insecurities. 

"Ah, fu - Derek." Stuttering words are pressed into the skin right above Derek’s collar bone. The voice is drenched in want, need and yearning. Derek’s head feels heavy, as if he’s being lulled into intoxication. Stiles leans his head against the kitchen cabinets, stretching his neck towards Derek, an expanse of pale inviting skin. Stiles is looking at him. It’s lust and hunger and something darker he can’t put his finger on. Derek watches the way the black of his pupils devour the brown, ravaging away the amber and the bourbon until all Derek can see are dark, shadowy eyes luring him in. Derek surges forward, letting his lips ghost across the stretch of the boy’s skin, fluttering across the bulging vein raking across the cord of his neck. He can’t help himself. With a low growl he catches the skin between his teeth, tasting the salt, breathing in the musk. "Hah!" Stiles hips jerk forward, gyrating against the hot pressure of Derek’s palm. Stiles’ hands yank his jacket closer, digging his fingers into the material. Derek tugs harder, faster, latching onto the flesh of his throat, sucking patches of dark bruises into the pale skin. Stiles is gasping against his touch, reveling in it. His hips are thrusting up into his hand, a constant uncontrollable stutter.Derek loves it, loves the way Stiles twitches against each and every press of his palm, loves the way his breath flutters and flickers against his ears, loves those fucking whimpers. 

 "Huh. Right there. Yeah right there, right there, right there," Stiles exhales, snapping his groin against Derek’s rapid rubbing skin, digging into the heat. With a strong tug Stiles is yanking Derek flush against his chest. The sound that trembles across Stiles’ lips is probably the most beautiful thing. It's better than his whimpers, or his groans, or his freaking chuckles. It’s choked back and breathy and guttural and so unlike anything Derek has ever heard. Derek keeps on tugging at his groin, grinding against it until Stiles’ hips twitch away from his touch, the oversensitivity pressing himself back against the counter. 

"Fuck. You can’t just do that!I mean - fuck!"

Derek can’t hold back the urge to lightly suck against his skin, smiling at the way it makes Stiles tense back up. 

"Hey guys, what’s up with the pop -"

They immediately shove each other away, tumbling towards opposite corners of the kitchen, creating as much distance as possible. 

When did Boyd's kitchen get so small?

"Heyyyy! Isaac!"

Derek feels like punching himself in the face by being - again - inappropriately turned on by the fact that he just made Stiles’ voice sound like that. He sounds all sexed - up and it’s wonderful.

Derek keeps his eyes strained onto the kitchen tiles, scanning them over a patch of flaking turquoise. His face is close to scorching right off of his cheekbones. 

"Sorry. I - uh - never mind."

And with that Isaac is storming out of the kitchen, his racing footsteps thundering down the hallway and back into the basement. 

Great. Now everybody knows. 

Derek has no idea why he doesn’t want anybody to know, why he wants to keep Stiles a secret. Maybe because he wants to keep Stiles all to himself. 

Derek is selfish. 

"Okay. It’s official. We’re so, so bad at staying classy. Also, I have come in my underwear. I hate you."

Derek doesn’t trust himself with merely looking at Stiles. He does, though. He can’t keep his eyes latched onto the floor when Stiles Stilinski is right there. All flushed cheeks and mussed up hair and swollen lips and fucking gigantic dark brown eyes. Derek almost mauls him over, pacing closer, sucking his lips against his, a short pleasure of warmth heating up his face even further. 

Stiles is laughing. It’s beautiful. 

 

♦︎

 

"Tell me again how you ended up walking here?"

Derek tries his best to keep his bike under control. It’s difficult to keep the wheels from swiveling with Stiles leaning over his chest, sitting on the handlebars. It looks so much easier in the movies. That’s why their movies. Reality tends to be a little more challenging. 

"My car engine wouldn’t start." 

Stiles' voice travels towards his ear, clashing with the howling whips of wind speeding past them.

"I can’t believe you walked all the way."

"I can’t believe you can’t believe I walked all the way. I’m perfectly capable of it. I just chose not to most of the time."

Derek’s chuckle clashes against Stiles cackle, their laughs reverberating into each other through the spot of where their bodies are connected. He likes the way that spot has heated up into a pleasant, pulsating warmth, fighting back the freezing winter air. It's keeping it from clawing its way through them, keeping it from ripping them apart. 

"This is kind of super romantic," Stiles sighs, after a moment of comfortable silence. Derek grumbles out a quiet laugh. It kind of is. Derek’s not good at romance. _This_ feels easy, though. Derek can manage to do _this_. 

It doesn’t take long until Stiles starts babbling away. It’s wonderful and utterly comforting and warming up their little bubble. It’s like having a tiny sun glowing above their heads, illuminating their way through the shadowed streets and forest paths. Derek listens to everything he has to say. He likes listening to all the colorful thoughts whirling through Stiles' head. He likes the way they gush out of those constantly twitching lips. He likes Stiles this way. _This_ Stiles is funny and weird and sarcastic and clumsy. Derek wants to have _this_ Stiles with him as often as he can. But Derek knows that’s not the way things work in the real world. That’s not how people work. That’s not how Stiles works. 

"Whoa! Watch out the -"

The handlebars start to dangerously wobble out of Derek’s controlling grip. All he sees before they both tumble to the pavement is the swiveling motion of the bike tires mere inches away from clashing against the tail light of a car. His reflexes take hold of his body, his limbs immediately leaving the grip of the handlebars, surging forward. He’s wrapping his arms around Stiles’ torso, tugging him against his chest, shielding him from the fall. Derek feels the impact thunder through the side of his shoulder blade, cutting through the bone like a knife. There’s a horrifying moment of panic filled with nothing but the rapid pulsing of his heart against his chest. Stiles is breathing against the crook of his neck, stuttered blips of air warming up his skin. Derek loosens his grip around the boy's waist, letting him carefully slide onto the pavement. Derek's trembling fingers skim the surface of his glasses, carefully rearranging them onto his nose.  

And then Stiles starts laughing. And then Derek starts laughing. And then they’re both simply laughing. They keep on laughing until Derek’s chest feels like it’s dangerously close to deflating, a painful pressure shoving against his lungs like a giant, invisible fist. Derek feels like he’s choking. His eyes are burning and his body is being pulled into constant spasms. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s laughed this hard, doesn’t even know why he’s laughing. But for some twisted reason, it feels like the perfect moment to laugh. It’s bizarre hearing his own heaving cackles ringing against his ears. The more he laughs, the more Stiles laughs. Derek turns his head. Stiles' eyes are crinkling at the edges, his lids squinting over his brown eyes. Derek loves the way Stiles looks when he can’t keep it together. It's looks like he’s going to ecstatically combust. Derek has only ever known one person who's capable of looking like that. It’s sort of nice knowing another one. 

The laughing fades into the huffing of chests rising and falling and the echoes chasing after fading chuckles. Stiles lets out a quiet hiccup before falling completely still, flicking his eyes into place. He holds Derek’s gaze. His eyes are reflecting the sparks of the street lights. It looks like they're dipping his irises into liquid gold. Derek could never get tired of staring at Stiles. The boy's eyes are like a kaleidoscopes. They change and morph into something new every single time Derek looks at them. Every Derek he looks at _him_. 

There’s a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of Stiles' lips. 

"Thanks for saving my life," the boy snorts. Derek lets out a little chuckle. He’s oddly enjoying the way it sounds against his own ears. Foreign and new. The smile on Stiles' lips wavers. His fingers come forward, carefully grazing Derek’s cheekbone. It’s a delicate touch, barely there. Lingering and haunting. 

"What is this?" Stiles whispers, breathing the words into the damp concrete. Derek watches the cloud of hot air twirl into the space between them. 

"I don’t know," he whispers back. 

It falls silent again. The way it's filled with their thoughts synchronizing and buzzing with the same sense of the unknown, is oddly comforting.

"It kinda scares me a little."

Stiles' words are hushed and unsure, an immense contrast to the jubilant giggles from mere seconds ago. But even silent, the words are heavy. Derek is comforted by the feeling of not being the only over-thinker for once. _Being_ Derek isn't as unnerving as it had been. It's still utterly horrifying. Less, though. A little less.  

"Me too.“

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaahh god I couldn't sleep. So I sort of whipped this out at 2 in the morning. I'm just happy I'm moderately okayish at editing at what-the-fuck-o'clock, because it was a load of gibberish when I woke up.  
> So finaaally! Some damn sexy times! Derek sort of realizes he's a total sex machine *grrrr*  
> ALSO! These two beautiful munchkins are killing me!!! I swear to god this otp is ruining my life....I just love them so much.... asduakfhksdhfkj ( ⚈̥̥̥̥̥́⌢⚈̥̥̥̥̥̀)


	9. Gibberish Christmas Carols & Abercrombie Possies

Christmas is Derek’s guilty pleasure. There’s a hidden chamber deep, deep inside the pits of his heart where he secretly stows his love for sappy white and red decorations and Nat King Cole singing about chest nuts, Jack Frost and eskimos. He even appreciates Ted’s "Christmas in a bottle“ - Derek has no idea where the guy finds those kinds of sprays, he’s guessing space portals - and the way he fogs up the whole entire house with caramel apples and candy canes. He tends to go a little overboard. The stuff lingers. It eats itself into every opening of your body and makes your eyeballs leak out, but Derek secretly loves it. 

And then there’s the Christmas tree. Ted proudly tells his tales of his grandson and him scavenging each and every dark and gruesome corner of the depths of the treacherous terrains of the Beacon Hills forest, in search for the most appealingly symmetric tree mankind has ever set its sights on. The two of them just walk a few feet behind the backyard shed, because Ted needs to take a coffee break every two steps. Derek respects it. The guy shouldn’t even be alive. He’s a medical miracle. 

The nice thing about the whole Christmas tree ritual is that it’s exclusively a man thing. Mostly due to nobody trusting Laura or Cora wielding an axe, for obvious reasons. Hacking down a tree carries its own sense of satisfactory accomplishment. Derek feels like growing a beard and wrestling a mountain lion with his bare hands. Maybe he even feels like man-grunt a little more than usual. 

And like every Christmas they overestimate the height of their living room ceiling. It isn’t that much of a difficult task and yet it’s pretty much always the same issue. Their Christmas tree is currently bent across half of the living room space, the star dangling from a thread Ted had expertly attached to the tip with one of Laura’s hair pins. It works, though. They make a lot of things work, even Laura’s vegan Eggnog Pudding Cookie Cups. Derek secretly enjoys the confections, even though they resemble predigested vomit puddles in bunny poop molds (not Derek’s words). His grandpa increasingly channels the visionary thoughts of his right side brain when he’s in the holiday spirit. That, and he’s also been sporting a Santa hat for the past week. It's one of those things with a colossal fuzzy ball hanging from the tip. It doesn’t really bother Derek, but when Ted starts talking Stiles into wearing the extra hat every time he comes over, he tends to lose his shit. The hat is a little too big and if Stiles doesn’t guava - gel his hair, it tends to flop into his eyes. Cora keeps on calling him "Santa’s sexy little helper dipped in hot sauce". It’s so spot on, it scares Derek to the extend where he’ll force Stiles to take it the fuck off, causing Stiles to keep it on for as long as he humanly can.

It’s utterly distracting, especially when Santa’s hot Christmas elf is sending Derek lots and lots of terribly executed “signals“ from across the kitchen island. The boy is immersing his eyebrows into a bizarre wiggling solo dance off. And then there’s the whole nibbling on his bottom lip part, swelling it a dark crimson. Derek tries his best to look away. He really does, but then the hat slips past his eyes and slumps over the dip of his nose. Derek can barely keep it together.

"So, Stiles. What are you planning for Christmas eve?“ 

It takes Stiles a while to snap away from Derek's heated stare. Derek smirks, enjoying the way he catches a hue of red splurge across the boy’s cheeks. 

Talia is swaying her hips to “Rockin’ Around The Christmas Tree“, mixing her cookie batter to the beat. Cora is constantly trying to dip her finger into the batter, but their mom amusedly whirls away from her eager grasps.

"Uh, flying to Long Beach to spend it with my dad.“

Stiles’ eyes flick towards the plate of Eggnog cookies. Derek watches the way his pupils stay absolutely motionless, as if he’s looking far beyond the mountain of confections, losing himself somewhere else Derek can’t see, somewhere Derek can’t follow. He starts fidgeting with the hems of his sweater, pulling and scrunching the material. Fidgeting is never a good sign.

"That sounds wonderful!“ 

Derek is the only one who notices the way his features harden and his mouth clamps shut, pulled together in a thin line. The grip around the material tightens, straining over the outline of his knuckles. It sort of reminds Derek of the scrunchy stress reliever toy Talia had brought home from a late shift. It's a styrofoam heart, small enough to fit into one hand and scrunch away the stress - or the hurt and the loneliness. 

"Yeah."

Stiles doesn’t talk much about his father. The only thing Derek knows is that when he moved to Phoenix with his mother, neither of them had had any contact. And then Stiles had moved back in with him, when his mother had passed away last year. He rarely comes home to Beacon Hills. Every time Stiles does mention his father, his sentences are cut short, heavy with things Derek can’t decipher. 

"Are you excited?“

"I guess.“

The fidgeting of his hands is less controlled, his fingers cursing with a constant twitch. Stiles’ answer doesn’t fit to his posture. His face is all wrong. 

Thalia glances at Derek, a slight furrow distorting the skin between hr eyebrows. She looks worried. Derek feels the same. 

Mariah Carey is singing about how all she wants for Christmas is you. For a while she’s the only one talking, her velvety rich vocals luring Derek away from the worried thoughts, away from Stiles. Derek wards them off. He can’t stand the way Stiles is a complete blank page again. The wall is back and it's ten feet tall and indestructible. Derek can’t see past it. It’s blocking off any attempts of him trying to read Stiles and it’s frustrating. 

_He keeps to himself a lot._

_I’ve tried to help him. God I’ve tried. But it’s him. It’s all him and he won’t let me._

Scott’s words are melting into the wall, fueling its purpose, pushing it further into the sky. Derek can’t break through, doesn’t know how to. 

The wall doesn’t tumble back down any time soon. 

 

♦︎

 

Christmas eve turns out to be a chaotic whirlwind of gibberish Christmas carols, heated dinner conversations about the semi - pedophilic image of Santa Clause and dessert. Dessert is a whole chaotic whirlwind on its own. The Layhes didn’t bring enough of their berry mango buttermilk muffins. It’s madness. And yet Derek finds himself at ease in all the madness and the chaos. It’s wonderfully normal, beautifully familiar. 

Which is why he can’t help let his mind slip away from the gleaming faces and hearty laughter, away from the glow of the electric fireplace and the smell of apple cider.  

_Stiles._

Derek wonders what he’s doing right now. It feels stupid wondering. He feels like the epitome of a love drunk idiot. Stiles’ strained features keep on seeping into the backside of his eyelids, the image burning itself into the pink flesh. 

He wonders what kind of person Stiles' father is, how bad it must be for him to react the way the boy had the other day. Looking around the cheerful faces of family and friends makes Derek miss Stiles. It’s a barely noticeable feeling, a quiet nuisance nibbling at the back of his mind. 

_When the hell did that happen?!_

Derek wonders when all of this started happening, when all of _him_ started happening. Derek can’t stop thinking about Stiles. He can’t stop worrying, can’t stop letting the concerned thoughts of the boy burrow themselves into the folds and creases of his brain. The feeling is different. It doesn’t come close to the admiration he’d had for him for the past year. It’s not something he can simply tune out like he used to, like reading a book while listening to the radio. It’s heavier now, screaming for every ounce of his attention, like concentrating on an Algebra seminar while a raging riot is trying to fight its way through the doors. Dangerous and deafening. 

Derek doesn’t like the way it makes him feel. It's as if he’s clinging onto Stiles too tight. His mind isn’t his own anymore. The thought is odd and out of place in all of this. Derek doesn’t even know what “all of this“ is. Stiles doesn’t even know. It should put him at ease, but it makes him worry even more.

It’s Christmas eve. The living room is filled with the warmhearted holiday glow. There’s laughter, and tender friendliness and all Derek can do is worry. Overthinking is his specialty. 

 

♦︎

 

"This was definitely the most wonderful Christmas we’ve had in a long time. Thank you so much for inviting us. “ 

Melissa beams from where her chin is nestled into the crook of Talia’s neck, her arms wrapped around Derek’s mother in a quick embrace. 

"Of course! It’s a little chaotic, but it’s always definitely something.“ 

Melissa laughs at that. 

"Definitely something!“ she repeats with a beaming grin. Derek sees the resemblance. Scott and his mom have a sort of tender affection when it comes to their smiles. It’s the kind that always manages to make you feel a little more comfortable in your own skin. It's the kind that makes you want to gush about each and every secret that’s been pissing your brain off. Yeah. It’s _that_ kind of smile.

Derek is looming in the hallway, stepping from one foot onto the other. Everybody seems to be absorbed into heated farewell discussions and all Derek seems to be capable of is looming. 

The Reyes had had to leave early, due to Tommy and George starting a full on mini toddler war in the kitchen, because their gifts hadn’t been the exact same size. Giving identical twins presents comes with its own hazards. Boyd and his parents had left shortly after, mostly because grandpa Ted isn’t just anybodies type of kooky fruitcake. He tends to drain people out the second he engages a conversation. The guy is unbelievably demanding when it comes to human communication. The Boyds are probably exhausted and passed out. 

Cora and Laura definitely are. The two of them are currently huddled onto the couch, dozing away after having eaten more than their stomaches can probably digest and trying to help the Boyds get out of grandpa Ted’s conversation about the pros and cons of the human repopulation of Mars. _Re_ \- population.

Derek snaps his eyes away from the hole in his left sock right above the big toe. He watches Isaac animatedly talk to Scott, his hands flapping around like he’s moving invisible cubes through the air. The dark haired boy keeps on giving Derek these meaningful looks, followed by sentimental smiles. Derek knows what he’s trying to get at. He can practically read it from the other boy's face. 

_You’re knees deep, dude._

Derek knows that already. He knows he can’t get out. Not now. Then again, he never really could. 

"What do you think, Derek?“

Derek blinks. His eyes pull away from Scott’s. Isaac is looking at him expectantly. 

"Hm?“

"If we should check out their next lacrosse game?“ 

Scott cocks his head to the side, watching him intently. Derek feels like he’s analyzing him, reading into every single thing his body is conveying. And judging by the copious amounts of “looks“ he's been giving Derek all night, he’s probably been conveying a lot. Derek hates being evaluated. 

"Uh. Yeah. Sure. Why not?“ he manages to coax out of his mouth. The words feel constricted, forced. He doesn’t feel much like talking. 

"Yeah, our next game is next Friday."

Scott gives Derek another careful look. Derek tries to ignore it. He simply nod, not knowing where to look.  

The floor looks extremely interesting right about freaking now. 

"Scott, lets go and Isaac, your parents are waiting outside.“ 

Melissa waves her scarf into the air, causing it to smack Talia in the face. 

"Oops sorry!“

"No problem. Juice - Jabbers are worse. Get home safe!"

Talia helps unlock the door. The frigid winter air seeps into the hallway, biting into Derek’s skin the second it reaches him. It feels like the cold is putting an end to the warmth of Christmas eve, like Jack Frost bullying away Santa Clause. Derek remembers the movie. It was a pretty shitty movie. 

"We will, thanks so much again. Come on, boys," Melissa shouts from the driveway. Derek gives them a quick wave and a sort - of - a - smile when his mother nudges him against the shin. 

"What’s wrong?“ she asks, her hands clasping the door handle tight, as she pushes it back into the lock, forcing Jack Frost back into the cold. Derek immediately turns on his heels, his feet already steering towards the staircase. 

"Tired," he gruffly mumbles. Derek is incredibly tired. Chaotic Christmas celebrations and overthinking are two very tiring things.

Derek can practically feel his mother’s laser beam stare right through the thick material of the sweater Cora had given him as a present. “Caveman: grunt to interact“ is ironed into the fuzzy blue material. It itches a little and clings to his hairs with electric friction, but Derek doesn’t mind. He’s mostly enduring the clothing article for all its worth, because his sister has never once in her life given Derek a present. It’s a true Christmas miracle. 

"Is it because of your father’s present?“

Derek jerks to an abrupt stop. The weight in her words is pulling him back into the hallway. It hurts hearing her like that. Worried and sad. 

Derek hadn’t even given the present any second thoughts. It had been in the mail a few days ago and neither of them had had the guts to open it, which had seemed incomprehensibly ridiculous, due to it being nothing but a simple present. Joshua sends a gift every year without fail. It’s always something ordinary, something harmless. Stupid stuff like puzzles or Christmas balls, the kind with a snowman inside and copious amounts of fake snowflakes that fog up the whole ball in a snow blizzard if you shake it hard enough. But this time it had been something completely different.

Four color containers. 

His mother had frozen completely still, her eyes wide as they had practically scorched the containers’ existence away. Before Joshua had left them, Talia had complained about the chipped color of grandpa Ted’s trailer at the lake and how she’d wanted to cover the stained white with turquoise. 

The four color containers are turquoise. The present isn’t ordinary. It's not harmless. It’s personal. And of course Talia had been affected by it. Of course she's still affected by it. But all she’d done all Christmas eve was laugh, smile, and keep friendly conversations going. Derek feels like a dick, because he’s been thinking about _some_ guy. He probably looks like every ounce ofholiday spirit has been sucked right out of his soul, because he can’t stop worrying about _some_ guy. And it’s not about his father, someone who had been part of their family at some point in their lives. It’s about _some_ guy.

Derek feels like the biggest dick that’s currently out there.

"No."

It wouldn’t make much sense lying at this point. His mother isn’t a psychic like her father, but she tends to read Derek like an open book. Apparently it’s a 'mom' thing.Thalia nods, a knowing glint in her eyes. 

"Grandpa Ted left another present in your room earlier. I have a feeling it’ll make you feel better," she mentions with an easy smile. It looks so natural coming from her. No matter how affected she is by something, no matter how bad it is, she always manages to smile in a way that makes all the worry melt away.Derek can't help but think of that time when he was 12 and he'd broken his left ankle during basketball practice. He’d been rushed to the hospital and instead of looking as worried as everybody else, Talia had just smiled. His mother had smiled so bright until the pain had been endurable. 

Derek feels like Christmas turns him into a fucking sap. Probably. Most probably. 

Talia presses a peck onto his temple before heading towards the living room. 

"Sleep well, Derek," she whispers. Derek nods and gives - well, _tries_ \- to crack a tiny smile. 

 

♦︎

 

It’s a present, wrapped in one of those kitschy Frosty the Snowman papers. The neon blue of the ribbon wrapped around the packet is practically scorching Derek's retinas away, one blink at a time. There’s a small note squashed beneath it. 

_So, I was never really sure if I should show you this, let alone actually give it to you as a Christmas present, but you know, why the hell not! Just a heads up… It might be a little creepy. I swear I’m not a stalker or anything. Okay maybe a little!_

_Merry Christmas Deedee :)_

_Your Polish mystery_

 Derek doesn’t know what to make of the note until the familiar red, white, blue of Captain America’s shield peeks out from under the ripped open paper. It’s Stiles' sketchbook. It's the exact same sketchbook he’s been using ever since Derek first tutored him. A warmth spreads out through his limbs, stretches into each and every corner of his body. Stiles’ sketchbooks are personal. Derek knows how intimate it is for Stiles to actually show him what’s inside. 

His eyes are locked onto the book cover, his fingers hovering over the rough material. Opening the first page is like looking into a mirror. It’s Derek. He’s sleeping, half his face buried into a patchwork blanket. He lets his fingers gingerly graze over his relaxed features, following the dibs of his disheveled curls, skimming over the slope of his nose. It’s weird seeing himself through the eyes of someone else. The Derek in the sketch looks peaceful, at ease, lost in an unreachable world. 

_This is your cute little sleepy face :)_

Derek smiles, as he deciphers Stiles’ handwriting in the bottom left corner. He lets his fingers flick through the following pages of the sketchbook. Apparently Derek looks like he’s two seconds away from going on a full fledged killing spree when he’s lost in a book. He hadn’t known his eyebrows were capable of such wrathful intensity (holy shit). What he also hadn’t known, was that Stiles had even caught him snoozing on the counter of 7 - Eleven. The thought of Stiles checking up on him on Fridays almost feels like misplaced information that he doesn't know what to do with. It feels just as misplaced, as him being watched by Stiles waiting for Boyd to finish his Bio study group every week. The worn out Converse slackly hanging over a ledge of a bruised pickup truck seem oddly familiar. 

The whole entire sketchbook consists of memories and glimpses of Derek. He even finds cartoon versions of grandpa Ted on a unicorn. There's also whole entire page dedicated to the culinary masterpieces of the “Snack Shack“. Derek even spots Ginger twirling a dark lock around her finger. 

Every sketch looks incredibly real. The expressions, the demeanors, the sceneries. It feels like they’re living, breathing things. Derek catches himself thinking they’ll come to life if he lets his eyes trail else where long enough. He doesn’t, though. He scans each and every page again and again and again. It makes his skin tingle Having someone spend their time on drawing him, scanning his features, memorizing every little detail in order to make him come to life on barren paper, seems to be an almost thrilling feeling. 

Most of these sketches are Derek. This is how he looks like to Stiles. It’s like getting to know a stranger with your face. This is who Derek is when he’s not looking in the mirror. This is him.

Derek hastily drags his Nokia out of his jeans. The whole evening he’d refrained himself from texting him, or calling him, strictly only letting his mind slip into worried thoughts, but not actually translating them into actions. 

It doesn’t even take two whole buzzing beeps before Stiles’ familiar voice streams through the speaker. 

"Hai, Der."

"Uh, hi."

Derek feels a little weight lift from his shoulders. Stiles is right there, breathing through the phone with him.

The next few seconds are filled with a static - like silence, nothing but the background noises of Stiles’ end of the line filling in the spaces between their breaths. For a moment Derek feels guilty for not getting him a present. He should’ve gotten him a present. He really should have. 

"Thanks so much for the sketchbook."

Derek hopes Stiles can hear it, hopes he can hear how much it really means to him. 

"Oh that. Yeah. No biggie you’re very, super duper welcome.“

His words drag a hushed slur with them, a barely noticeable drawl. Derek knows he’s been drinking. He doesn’t know why it bothers him. It’s Christmas eve after all. If Stiles feels like drinking, then he can drink. Derek shouldn’t care as much as he does.  

"How was Christmas with your dad? Is it still going on?"

Stiles’ heavy breathing presses through the speaker. It’s silent again. Derek can make out the distinct screeching sounds of chairs being pulled and shoved across a floor, voices booming between the disembodied breaths. 

"Nope." 

"So, how was it?"

"Good."

Even through the phone and the thousand miles between them, Derek can make out the slight strangle woven into his words. It wasn’t good. 

"Are you guys still at the restaurant?"

Another silence. Derek isn’t sure if it’s because Stiles is distracted, or if he genuinely does not want to answer his question. Maybe he even talk to Derek. 

"I am. He isn’t."

Stiles mumbles the words in a it’s - as - simple - as - that tone. It’s harsh and heavy and it makes Derek’s throat constrict. 

"What do you mean he is -"

"He didn’t show up! My dad didn’t show up, because he has other business to attend to. It’s more important than spending his stupid fucking Christmas with his stupid fucking stupid son!"

Stiles practically yells the words into the phone, causing Derek to slightly angle it away from his ear. The drawl is even more distinct than before. Stiles has been drinking a lot. 

"So, yeah. I spent the last six hours in some fancy ass restaurant. He said he’d pay. So, you know, I got that going for me."

"How much have you been drinking, Stiles?"

"Why the hell do you want to know, Derek? Who are you, my mom?"

"Stiles, just -"

There’s shuffling at the other end, material being dragged across material. Derek concentrates on another muffled voice in the background. 

"Just give me another one of these." Derek hears Stiles mumble. He hates jumping to conclusions, but he knows what Stiles is talking about. 

"Actually, make that two."

"Stiles?"

"Yeah?"

"I’m sorry."

"Derek, stop apologizing for stuff that’s not your fault."

"I know okay? I know - just - why don’t you go back to the hotel and -"

"Uuuuugh. I’m having a great fucking time right now. I’m staying until they kick me out. Merry. Christmas."

"Stiles, I- "

Derek’s voice is overtrumped by the repeated buzz of the beep. Stiles hung up. Derek breathes into the speaker alone, letting it synchronize to the rhythm of the ringing tone. 

He calls again. No one picks up. 

 

♦︎

 

The parking lot is filled with copious amounts of heated, ear - shattering reunions. Everyone is crawling over one another. Words are being flung into the ice cold air and flung right back onto the pavement. It’s one gigantic _“How the fuck was your fucking holiday?!“_. 

"How was your holiday, Hale?" 

Derek's point exactly. 

Derek whirls around, watching Erica wave her Arc Reactor thermos above her head.

"You were present a lot. So, pretty terrible I’d say."

"Oh!" Erica holds the palms of her hands in front of her body, seemingly warding off Derek’s attempts at showing the world how gloomy he’s feeling. "Who pissed into your cheerios today, Buttercup? Cora?“

"Amongst others," Derek mumbles under his breath, not wanting to repeat himself after Erica gives him a questioning eye - brow - raise. It’s as intimidating as the Boyd - one - shoulder - shrug. The two make quite the duo.  

Stiles and Derek hadn’t talked all winter break. After a few unanswered calls, Derek had given up, talking himself into trying not to seem like some clingy virgin. Not that he is a virgin. But his whole entire situation just screams the six letter word. Stiles and him aren’t anything special. By all means, apparently the relationship they share seems to be somewhat of the confusing kind. Meaning it’s distancing itself from thepink, sparkly island of “special“ and into the barren land of the “unknown“. And of course that causes Derek to worry a hell of a lot. Overthinking sexual and emotional desires for someone else is one giant LED sign, glowing a pink, neon freaking “V“.  

Maybe Stiles just needs some space. Maybe he still does, judging by the way he hasn’t even glanced into Derek’s direction once. If Stiles wants space, Derek will give him space. 

Jesus. He already sounds like a bitchy, clingy girlfriend. Which he’s not. At least he’s trying to refrain Katelyn from gaining more power than she already has over his brain. 

It’s just incredibly confusing. All of this is incredibly confusing. It’s new, strange and surreal, as if Derek’s being reintroduced to a world he’s been part of for the last 18 years. There are so many little things he’s missed out on, so many little things he hadn’t payed an ounce of attention to. He should have.

Derek is being flung right back into the emotional roller coaster that is Stiles Stilinski and Derek is trying his utter best at keeping his seatbelt fastened. But when Stiles gives Derek his sketchbook as a Christmas present and doesn’t even give him a single glance after winter break, it’s really difficult to cling onto the handlebars. Derek feels like the past month has been nothing but a lucid dream, filled with the actual satisfaction of his subconscious desires. Shit like that doesn’t happen to Derek. He might genuinely be convinced of the fact that it was all just a dream. A really lengthy, detailed dream, but still a dream. Translucent and ungraspable. 

Derek tries to listen to Erica ramble about her New Years eve, when he catches sight of the students huddled around Stiles. Scott’s dark curls are nowhere to be found. Derek has seen a few of those kids hang around Stiles, but he's never seen them all at once. They're all posh, primmed and perfect. The glittering embodiment of teen high society. 

Derek feels a slight stab in his chest when a red haired boy whispers something into Stiles’ ear, causing the boy's back to tremble in a loud chuckle. It angers him that the laugh is meant for someone who isn’t Derek. The ginger guy is abnormally handsome. It makes Derek want to bash his face in. The urge to do so grows rapidly when the stranger ruffles his hand through Stiles’ guava - hair - gel hair, as if they’ve known each other forever. It occurs to Derek that that might actually be the case - or the _issue_. In Derek’s head, it’s a big, fat, fucking issue. 

And then he’s watching the ginger flick his lighter. Stiles leans in closer, cigarette clamped between his lips, while he lets the other guy light the tip of it. 

Yeah. Derek feels like damaging this guy’s face with a chainsaw. 

The gruesome thought jolts a sense of fear through his brain. Jealousy has never been this bad. Jealousy has never led to him having to desperately fight against the urge to physically disfigure a total stranger. And he truly has to fight back with every ounce of restraint, because now the ginger is flinging his arm around Stiles’ shoulder and cackling into his ear. Derek is downright losing it when the ginger presses a kiss onto Stiles' cheek.

There's an irate heat curling itself into the pits of Derek's stomach, buzzing through his veins, spreading further into his limbs. His head is a kaleidoscope explosion of red, red rage. Derek feels his nails digging into the flesh of his palms, the painful pressure keeping the anger from gushing out through the gaps between his fingers. 

He wants to blow this guy’s head off with his knuckles. 

"Derek? Are you alright? You look like you’re about to literally murder somebody."

Erica’s voice is luring him away from the tunnel - vision of Stiles and that fucking ginger. 

He snaps his head to the side, the blunt motion making his head turn dizzily. 

"Derek?"

Erica’s dark eyes are scanning his features before glancing over his shoulder. 

"Oh. Who’s that?" she mumbles through cherry red lips. For a moment the color is all Derek can see. 

Red, red, red. 

Derek pulls his mouth into a thin line. 

"Let’s go."

And with that he wraps his fingers around her arm, crudely pulling her towards the school entrance.

It’s official. Derek is knees deep. It seriously sucks.

♦︎

 

It’s as if the past few weeks have been some technicolored fairytale, a place where Stiles and him had been riding on white noble steeds, galloping towards the rising sun, draped in nothing but rainbow colored bliss. 

The reality is a little less bedazzling. A lot less. 

Stiles hasn’t looked at him once all week. Instead, the boy has been hanging around his Abercrombie possy, laughing, shouting, smoking and drinking. Derek’s not an idiot. Kids don’t simply pass a bottle of water around like they’re channeling their inner “sharing is caring“ mantra. 

Vodka in a water bottle. Classy. 

Derek has been reintroduced to the horrific feeling of wanting to jab his Nokia into his forehead. Either that, or into the eye socket of that fucking ginger guy. The boy is all over Stiles, touching his back, hugging his torso, ruffling his fingers through his hair. That’s not even the worst part. The worst part of it is probably the fact that Stiles is letting him. 

Derek hates this unfamiliar feeling that has been rummaging through his gut for the past few days. It’s a dull ache that seems to be slowly turning into something distinctly sharper, something that stings.

He feels like an idiot. Now _that_ isn’t an unfamiliar feeling.

They’re teenagers. What did Derek expect? Some passionate, abyssal love story? He literally needs to stop watching 80’s rom - coms with his sisters. They're distorting his perception of reality. 

He wishes he understood the current world of teenage normality. He wishes he were like everybody else.He wishes he were like the kids that make out behind the bleachers with total strangers. He wishes he were like the kids that have quickies in club toilet stalls. He wishes he were like the kids that don’t take anybody, or any feelings seriously. 

He wishes. He wishes. He wishes.

Because apparently telling someone "you don’t just want a fling", means you want a confusing, slightly sexual relationship that lasts the short expanse of a few weeks and ends in total, utter disregard.

Derek’s not some hopeless romantic, by all means. He just doesn’t know how to keep up with the rest of the world.

 

♦︎

"You came!"

Isaac’s eyes are shining neon blue in the floodlights. He’s curled into the warmth of his jacket, beaming up at Derek like the fact that he actually decided to show up is a freaking revelation. Erica and Boyd are shooting him the exact same look. Derek tries to overlook the wrinkles between their eyebrow, just as much as the concerned purses of their lips. 

"Yeah. Silvia gave me the day off," he murmurs, settling onto the empty space next to Isaac. Derek tries to flex his mouth into an acceptable hint of a smile. Isaac pats a hand onto his shoulder blade. It’s probably supposed to be a soothing gesture. Apparently the boy means it a little too well, because Derek feels like he’s smacking the air right back out of his lungs. 

It’s cold, so cold that the sprinkles of rain feel like minuscule ice cubes stinging his flesh. The slight drizzles flash past the beam of the floodlights, leaving the lacrosse field glistening in a damp sheen. Derek lets his eyes roam around the rest of the bleachers. The place is packed. Students, teachers and parents are huddled around each other, pressing foggy breaths out of their lungs. They're one giddy mass of pent up excitement. No one ever comes to the Beacon Hills High basketball games. It’s weird seeing girls holding up signs with sparkly, pink glitter and half - assed sharpie drawings, or guys thrusting their fists into the air, mouths open in boisterous whoops. Derek feels a little out of place sitting on the bleachers. He’s so used to being the one seeing the - usually non existent - crowd, than actually sitting smack in the middle of it. 

The sharp ring of a whistle cuts through the mass of noise and the game begins. 

Derek doesn’t really get the rules of lacrosse. Other than two teams trying to get a ball into the opposite goal, Derek doesn’t think it’s that difficult. The players are vicious. It somehow reminds him of basketball, the way they push and shove through their opponents, fighting themselves across the field. It’s a chaos of limbs, lacrosse sticks and mud. Derek can practically hear it all, the grunting and the squelching of muck under the soles of their shoes. 

Isaac keeps on shouting “11“ like it’s his mantra. Derek skims the horde of bodies hurling across the field until he sees the number etched into the maroon material of a jersey. He’s pretty sure it’s Scott. It’s the way his movements are sure and tactful, but laced with a little clumsiness. It's not enough to hold him back, but enough for Derek to recognize him. He can’t help but wonder what number Stiles is. 

Derek turns it into a full on analyzation of each and every player in maroon jerseys. It takes him a while to notice the way number 24 hurls around the field like a human roadrunner, pacing after the ball, but never reaching it fast enough. He gets knocked onto his back more often than should be necessary, but he always gets back up. Always. It's as if he can’t stand the fact of not being on his feet enough. 

It’s mesmerizing. It’s Stiles. Derek knows it’s Stiles. 

His eyes are locked onto the white shimmering 24, as if it’s the only thing he can see. For a while it is. The boy is insane. He starts jumping around, a jumble of excited bashing limbs hurling itself across the field. He stumbles onto his knees. He gets back up. He falls onto his face. He gets back up. Every time he jumps back onto his feet, he whirls around even more erratically. It’s not normal. And then he stops. Theres a quiver cursing through his back, as he’s leaning his palms onto his bent knees. It almost looks like he’s laughing. 

There’s a roaring howl bashing its way through the background noises of shouting and cheering. Derek rips his eyes off of Stiles’ hunched over figure. 

It’s them. Stiles’ friends, or whatever the hell they are to him. They’re leaning against the side of the bleachers, laughing. The group is close enough for Derek to notice their flushed cheeks and ripped open mouths. Their cackling is so strong it’s burning tears into their eyes, distorting their features into almost painfully scrunched up masks of wrinkled skin. Derek follows their pointed fingers and their apparent focal point of amusement. 

It’s Stiles. 

The howling gets louder when one of the coaches blows his whistle and yells for number 24 to get off of the field. Stiles throws his stick into the mud, causing the dirt particles to scatter into the air around him like gooey confetti. He’s lifting both his fists up, flipping the coach off, which provokes another shoulder - cringing whistle to ripple across the field. Number 11 paces towards him, laying a hand onto his shoulder, but he gruffly shrugs it off. Stiles rips his headgear off, spitting onto the grass below his feet. His features slip in and out of irritability and animated excitement. Before Derek can question what the fuck is going on with the guy, he’s shoving his headgear into the chest of his coach, earning himself a heated shout of outrage. 

And then he’s storming past the bleachers, stumbling over loose shoe laces. He passes the cackling Abercrombie possy, hustling his way out of their hands holding onto his shoulders. His eyes flick upward and before Derek’s brain can grasp the fact that Stiles is looking straight at him, he’s gone. Stiles is gone. 

There’d been a flash of emotion surging across his face, something fast, harsh and ungraspable. 

Derek stands up so fast his head is whipped into a hazy daze, colorful specks splurging across his vision.

"Hey, where are you -"

Isaac is holding onto the hem of Derek’s jacket, pulling him back onto the bench. 

"Let him go, Isaac."

Derek distantly makes out Erica’s voice, before he feels the pressure of Isaac fingers disappear. He’s storming down the stairs. There’s another ringing whistle that makes his bones jump a slight fracture. The crowd starts roaring, caging Derek in a mass of heat and noise.

He reaches the steady ground of the grass, letting the damp mud suck against the soles of his shoes. The group of kids are still laughing when Derek paces past them. The ginger is missing. Derek’s throat vibrates in a low grumble, causing his feet pick up a faster pace. 

The dark building ahead stretches out into the night sky, gripping for the shadows above. Derek lets the heated mass of cheering noise fade into the back of his mind, as he races towards the entrance of the gym. A flash of red is dancing only a few steps away, a bodiless smudge of ginger catching the leftover white of the floodlights. 

"Oh, come on, Stiles!" an unfamiliar voice calls, a mocking undertone weighing the words down. 

"Hey!" Derek shouts. It’s more of a bark than anything else. 

"Hey!" he presses out when the ginger guy doesn’t react. Derek comes closer, his feet practically smashing cracks into the stairs leading towards the gym entrance. His fingers reach out, but the boy turns around before he can get a hand on him. It’s good that he didn’t. Derek would’ve probably crunched his shoulder blade into million little pieces.

He doesn’t even know where all this anger is coming from, has no idea why he’s running after the two of them in the first place. 

He does of course. It’s just easier pretending like he has no idea. 

"Yeah, what?! What the fuck do you want?“"

It’s a hoarse sound, close to a croak. The stranger’s eyes are huge, his pupils eating out the deep green, swallowing the flare of the floodlights. His pasty features let the smear of dark violet let his eye sockets look like hollow bruises. Up close everything about him seems out of place. Not even the most expensive clothes or perfectly gelled hair could prevent Derek from comparing him to the “after“ picture of the “before and after drug use “ posters hung across the ceiling during seminars held in the cafeteria every year. 

"What do you want?!"

There’s a giddy tremble dominating his posture, as if he’s two minutes away from running for his life. He doesn’t look terrified, though. He looks almost excited. It’s the way his shoes leave the pavement in small little jumps of agitation, hyperactive, like a child that doesn’t want to be sent to bed just yet.

"What did you give him?" Derek asks. The ginger opens his mouth with a trembling laughter. It almost sounds manic. The stranger doesn’t break eye contact, simply burns Derek’s eyes with his stare, letting the laughter curse through his shoulders and out of his throat. It’s a gruff and ugly sound.

"What - what the hell are you talking about?"

"What are you guys on? What did you make Stiles take?"

"Stiles? Why the hell do you want to know?“

Derek can’t stop the vicious commands of his brain and before he knows it, he’s gripping into the material of the boy’s coat, bluntly dragging him closer. 

"What did you make him take?" He annunciates every single word, slowing down his pace, letting the meaning seep into the guy’s brain, as if he’s face to face with a two year old. 

"What the fuck, man?! Who do you think got it for us in the first place?"

Derek’s knuckles tighten into the stiff fabric. The smell wavering between them is sharp and tangy, a mixture of hard liquor and American Spirits.

"I still have some. You wanna line?" the stranger asks, remnants of his laughing fit still gripping to every word. Derek shoves him away. The boy staggers back, reaching out for the wall behind him. Derek wishes the wall weren't there. 

"Hey! what the fu-"

"Leave," Derek spits. It scares him how harsh it sounds. It’s the way the gravelly murmur turns into a command the second it leaves his lips. Derek glares at the stranger as he rights his posture, shaky hands clutching at his coat. And then he’s laughing again and it’s frenzied and insane. His eyes go wide, letting his dark pupils look like giant buttons nestled into his deep set eye sockets. 

"What are you, like the sixth person to ask for his hand in marriage this year?" the boy blurts out between heaving chokes of laughter. 

He’s high. Derek shouldn’t be listening to a single word he’s saying, shouldn’t even be wasting his time on him. But the words still hurt. They hurt just as much as the way the boy is looking at him, as if he knows Derek. 

Derek turns away. He lets the manic stranger giggle into the wall of the gym, as if he’s been through the most comical two minutes of his life. 

The remnants of chuckles flood into the entrance of the gym, following Derek, an unwanted companion. The noises throw themselves from wall to wall, causing it to sound like it’s everywhere and nowhere at once. 

Derek follows the signs towards the boy’s locker room, ignoring the way the demented echo of laughter makes his spine tingle in all the worst ways possible.

The shadows are eating their way through the gaps of the lockers, leaking onto the long bench in the middle. The only reason Derek can make out the most gruff outlines is because of the single slit of light slicing through one of the narrow windows above. Stiles’ bare back is facing Derek when he steps into the crammed space. The boy is hunched over, his shoulder blades flexing in tiny, giddy movements. His hands are dug deep into his hair, jumpy fingers tugging at the damp strands. Derek takes a further step forward. The sound is swallowed by the vacuum of the stuffy space. Stiles' shoulders slightly cringe at the sound. He doesn’t turn around.

"Greg, I’m seriously not in the mood for your shit right now," he mumbles.

So, _Greg_. The name doesn’t suit him. It sounds too rough, too simple for someone who goes to a prep school.

"It’s me."

Derek watches the way Stiles goes completely frigid, his body strained and tense. The boy doesn’t say a word. Derek can’t even tell if he’s breathing. It feels like someone put the world on pause and Derek’s the only one left in motion. For a while the room is filled with nothing but the inflation and deflation of his own lungs. The sound reminds Derek of their last phone call on Christmas eve, when Stiles had hung up and had just disappeared, leaving Derek with nothing but heavy breathing and beeps. It feels the same. It feels like Stiles isn’t even here. 

"What do you want?"

It’s not a question. 

What does Derek want? There are a million questions in his mind, tumbling and spiraling in his head space. None of them seem acceptable enough. None of them seem like they deserve an answer. 

_What the fuck is going on Stiles?!_

"Nothing. I just - I wanted to check up on you."

Derek uncurls his fingers from his Nokia. There won't be any head - smashing today. 

Stiles laughs. It’s a sad sound, exhausted and empty. 

"Did you really." 

Again. Not a question. 

And yet Derek feels the strange urge to actually answer rhetorical questions. It’s funny how he usually appreciates rhetorical questions for their “no response needed“ policy. The beauty of irony. 

"Yes," Derek says. 

There’s another laugh. It's not really a laugh. It's something that sounds more like breathy chokes. 

"Why do you do that?" Stiles asks, abruptly standing up, turning towards Derek. The slice of light illuminates the back of him, turning Stiles into nothing but a motionless shadow engulfed by tiny rays of white. 

A human eclipse. 

Derek can’t see his face. He wishes he could. Maybe this time he’d be capable of reading him. But for some reason he just knows Stiles’ face is most probably a simple blank page, hiding his thoughts behind a veil of blankness. 

"Do what?"

"Never say what you want to say.“

Stiles steps closer. Derek watches the way his shoulders flex and tense with each swaying movement. The giddiness from before is cranked down, replaced by an air of sluggishness. Every motion is dragged out into its every last bit of possible endurance.  

Derek doesn’t have any response for that. No one has ever pointed it out about him. Everybody has simply taken his silence as a declaration. It's never been something that should be questioned. 

"Derek."

The way Stiles says his name is drawn out, drained, like a chewing gum simmering on heated pavement, clinging to the sole of your shoe in sticky grasps. Stiles comes closer, his movements spent, limbs heavily swaying at his sides.

The boy doesn’t seem anything like the Stiles Derek has grown to know, endure and to appreciate. The Stiles languidly slipping from one shadow into the other, dragging himself from one step into the next, is someone completely different. Sad and comatose and intoxicated.

Derek can feel the abnormal body heat emanating from Stiles’ skin. It’s not natural, the way it cloaks Derek’s front in a scorching fever. Stiles has come close enough for Derek to make out the specks of mud scattered between the usual constellation of moles, tiny intruders disrupting the familiarity. The dark smudges complement the blackness of his eyes. Derek has never seen Stiles’ eyes so utterly dark. They look like small vortexes in the space between his ears. The pupils are sucking each and every ounce of bourbon light right out of his irises. Everything about him looks wrong, like he’s some impostor, fighting for the approval of Derek’s sense of normality. He feels like gripping Stiles’ shoulders and vigorously shaking him until this stranger is flung right off of his skin.

That’s not the way things work. Derek wishes reality were easier. 

There’s something about the way Stiles is looking at Derek. It’s the way he isn’t. Derek feels like he’s looking past his eyes, past the thick walls of the gym, past the school grounds and further past the ends of the earth. 

And then Stiles is kissing him, slow and intense. For a bleak moment Derek’s brain shuts down completely. He’s lost in the warmth and the vigor, reveling in the way Stiles’ hands travel up his arms and anchor themselves into the dips of Derek’s neck. They're keeping him there, holding him in place, as if he’s scared that Derek might disappear. Stiles’ lips aren’t as soft as they usually are. They’re dry, chapped and rough under the pressure of his own.

Derek wants to press him away from his body. He wants to shout at him, scream at him, ask him "what the actual fuck?!". But all Derek manages to do is pull Stiles closer. He slots his lips against his, drinking up every little pulse of electricity charging their skins, letting the rim of his glasses painfully press into the bridge of his nose. 

Derek breathes, lets the smell of earth, sweat and the remnants of musky cologne push the walls of his lungs against his ribs. 

Derek hates and loves every moment of it. Stiles is coked up. His heartbeat is all wrong, irregular beats fluttering against his chest. His skin isn’t normal, simmering underneath Derek’s hands, sticking to his fingertips like the backside of a tape. Stiles is so hot, Derek’s afraid his flesh will scorch right off of his bones if he doesn’t dig his fingers into the dampness of it. He's forcing Stiles closer, deepening every ounce of heat. 

Derek wants the closeness back. Every ounce of him yearns for a tiny piece of their lost bubble. 

But the second Derek feels like merely kissing him won’t be enough to still the unfamiliar hunger burning dark and irate in his gut, he pushes himself away, creating as much distance as possible. He immediately yearns for the lost heat, the lost body, the lost fracture of distorted familiarity clinging to his skin like worn out velcro. 

Stiles doesn’t move. His lips are still lightly puckered, all flush, swollen and glistening with spit. His eyes are swallowed into the shadows of his hooded lids. Everything about him seems dazed, as if he’s lost in a trance, dozing with his eyes open. But it’s the way his features droop down, weighing heavy with held back tears that makes Derek feel utterly disgusted of himself. 

Derek is the responsible one. He shouldn’t let Stiles kiss him or touch him like that, not while he isn't in his right mind. Derek shouldn’t have the urge to rip off what little clothing is left and slam him against the nearest locker. Derek shouldn’t let anything hold him back from asking Stiles what’s going on, from urging him to talk about it. Derek shouldn't be afraid of telling Stiles that he can’t keep doing things like this to himself, because they're hurting not only him but Derek as well.  

But of course he doesn’t do any of it. He simply meets Stiles’ distant gaze. It's as if he's peering into the marble eyes of a statue, staring into nothing but cold, hard stone. 

The cheering washes through the gym and fills its hollowness with a buzzing mass of fading noise. 

And yet it’s completely quiet. No one utters another word. Derek stares at Stiles. Stiles stares at whatever the hell he's staring at. 

And when a trickle of dark red blood dribbles from one of the boy’s nostrils, leaks over the bow of his lips and trickles past his chin, Derek just keeps on staring. 

He stares until his eyes sting and tear up.

He stares until it feels like he won’t ever be capable of flexing his eyelids back down. 

He stares until the image of Stiles has etched itself into his cornea like a burn mark, a simmering hot tattoo. 

And then Derek is thinking about Scott. It’s a weird moment to think about Scott, but Derek is thinking about Scott. 

_You just don’t seem like the kind of guy who could handle him. I barely can._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A dash of Christmas and more drama ╭(°A°`)╮  
> uni is literally killing me. I've been living off of red bull and coffee and the love for my otps. The next few updates might take a while :(  
> So Stiles is high from coke and well I've never been high from cocaine, all the effects shown in this chapter have only been researched. One of the longterm effects of cocaine use is nosebleeds *cue sad piano music*


	10. Ghost Onions & Hulk Fights

"Hi.“

"Hi.“

_So, we’re talking now?_

"Derek?“

"Yes?“

_No._

"Thanks.“

"Your welcome.“

_Don’t do that again. I know you’re going to anyways._

"How are you?“

"Okay.“

_I’m not fucking okay. What the hell do you think? You can’t be seriously asking me how I’m doing. You’re so freaking confusing. You have no idea._

"Cora told me you’re visiting relatives in Iowa with your mom?“

"Yeah.“

_So what, now you decide to stop ignoring me? Now you’re interested in whatever the hell is going on in my life._

"For how long?“

"The whole weekend.“

_I don’t want to go. I want to stay here. I want you to come over. I want you back here. I want you._

"How long is the flight?“

"Long.“

_Stiles, please stop. Tell me why you’re really calling?_

"Right. ‘Course. Alright. Well, I’ll see you next week then. Have a safe flight and stuff. Bye.“

 

_Stay. Just fucking stay._

 

And then all Derek can hear is the ringing tone of the beep. He’s breathing alone. Again. Derek hates phone calls.

 

♦︎

 

Derek holds out his hand, settling his knuckles onto the cool metal of the armrest. He stretches his palm towards the ceiling of the plane. A dry warmth nestles itself into the spaces between his fingers. Talia gives him a thankful look before curling her hand into his, her grip tightening the second the pressure of speed bolts through the plane, slamming the passengers into their seats. His mom’s hand starts twitching, her fingers digging further into his flesh. 

Talia hates flying. Derek loves it. 

It’s not just about the the odd sense of defying gravity the second the wheels lift off the pavement, it’s also about leaving, about ripping yourself away from the ground and everything keeping you there. It’s about leaving the old for something new. In a way it reminds him of his “Lambo epiphany“. Derek calls it that now. It’s a name he can finally wrap around the feeling, the wonderful yearning burning beneath his ribs, making him uneasier each day. It's like a fish hook pinned into his chest. The further he walks away from it the more it tenses up, pulling him back. The feeling hurts a little, reaches over that red line of uncomfortableness.

Derek tries to snap his eyes away from the oval window. He doesn't want to give the shrinking matchbox houses any attention. Stiles is somewhere down there, shrinking with the matchbox houses, mixing with the mass of squares and veined streets, mingling with the patchworks of forests and lakes.

He doesn’t know why Stiles had called when he had. After Derek had brought Stiles home, he’d kept on ignoring him, only letting his eyes roam across the parking lot a scarce amount of times. Derek had always looked away. He hadn’t known why. Looking away is the literal embodiment of their whole entire current “situation“. Looking away is  _avoiding_  instead of  _dealing_.

Derek’s not good with “dealing“. Derek has perfectly perfected “avoiding“. It’s his special talent. Or so he’d thought. He can still feel the stiff material of that ginger kid’s coat. Hot and rough, gliding against the skin of his fingers. 

Derek clamps his teeth together, squeezing them into their slots like puzzle pieces, letting the pressure create a droning ache in his jawline.

He shouldn’t be thinking about Stiles, or anyone, or anything affiliated with him. He should be thinking about his mom and about Joshua and his family. That’s where they’re heading to. Iowa. Buffalo Center. Just another tiny speck on the radar of the real world. Who the fuck lives in Buffalo Center? Then again, who the fuck lives in Beacon Hills? Either you’re born there, or you’re just another lost soul looking for an escape, somewhere the real world can’t find you. Joshua had moved from escape to escape, from hiding place to hiding place.

Derek doesn’t want to see him. Nobody had wanted to accept the sudden invitation to meet Joshua’s new family. Nobody had wanted to meet the people that have ultimately  _replaced_  them. 

Laura had said she probably wouldn’t be capable of looking him in the face. Cora had said she’d probably spit him in the face. Grandpa Ted had mumbled something about not wanting to have anything to do with a traitor. And Derek - Derek had been the only one to notice the look in Talia’s eyes. Hurt and anger and something else, something Derek hadn’t been capable of pin - pointing. Torment? Regret? 

She’d wanted to go. Derek couldn’t let her go alone. 

So here he is, pinned into his seat, flying to fucking Buffalo Center, in fucking Iowa, to meet his fucking dad. 

Derek feels like running towards the exit doors, slamming them open with the mere force of his right shoulder blade - because in his head he has obtained the wishful fantasy of super human strength - flinging himself into the welcoming arms of gravity and smacking into the ground below, face first like a human pancake. Derek is picturing himself down there, all gooey and squashed. He wonders how people would react. They’d probably just take pictures and post it online. 

_Derek Hale - The Human Pancake._

He’d be the 2014 male version of Evelyn McHale. Just minus the beautiful and plus lots and lots of gooey, awkward-infested brain matter. He’d probably have a permanent glower on the remnants of his smashed face. If anything stays identifiable after a fall from 30,000 feet, it’s his eyebrows. Derek’s accepting their indestructible wrath. 

_Derek Hale - The Grumpy Human Pancake._

His brain is acting up. Black humor is an omen. 

Derek doesn’t know how he’s going to survive the next few hours or the next few days, at that.  

 

♦︎

 

Derek knows it’s him. It’s been twelve years and he doesn’t even need to blink twice or pinch his eyelids together to make out the sharp jawline, the dark hair and piercing blue eyes. Two specks of vibrant indigo are staring straight at the two of them. 

Derek feels Talia slow her pace. She sees him too. He feels the way her fingers grip the hem of his jacket a little tighter, as if she needs him to keep her steady. 

Joshua lifts an arm, his hand coming up and swaying from side to side in a strained wave. Derek doesn’t know what’s worse, the way Joshua looks like he’s two seconds away from getting the heck out of here, or the way he’s beaming at them with the most ridiculously forced smile.

Derek has to refrain himself from moving closer to the glass between the waiting area and the exit of the terminal. He has to force himself not to stick his freaking nose against it and bluntly stare at the other part of his DNA like he’s some rare human specimen caged in quarantine. Joshua’s not rare of course. Parents leaving their children aren’t rare one bit. 

Derek has to practically pull his mother towards the exit and push her further into the moving crowd of people running towards their loved ones and friends. Everyone else can’t wait to get out of the terminal and leave this place with the people that mean something to them. Derek feels like running right back. He’s pretty sure the feeling’s mutual, by the looks of Talia’s face. Her skin has faded into a pasty white, her green eyes dull and vacant. 

Turning around the corner is a motion of eternity. Derek feels like he’s at the tip of a roller coaster, the wagon slowly gliding forward and closing in on the edge and everything lying below and beyond. The anticipation and the horror is building up in his bones until he’s storming down the slope faster than lightning. There’s pressure in his spinal chords, in his head, in his knees, in his fingers - everywhere. 

Joshua is right in front of them. There’s no glass separating them, no surface shielding them from reality. His father scans his features, his blue-bird eyes flitting from one spot to the other. They're snapping back and forth so fast, it's as if he’s trying to memorize every dip and curve of Derek’s face. Derek wonders if he might even be comparing the image in front of him to the boy he once knew. 

Joshua shakes his head slightly. 

"Hello, Derek.“ 

The voice doesn’t fit to him. It’s too low, too gruff for someone with such a young looking face. 

_Worn out,_ Derek thinks.  


He wonders if the hoarseness is the outcome of being overused or if it’s always been like that. Derek remembers watching  _Castaway_ with grandpa Ted. The old man had told him that the first thing people forget when they are separated from someone for too long is the the way they sound - their voice. 

In his mind, Joshua’s face had always been there, blurred and distorted but  _there_. It had always been safely stowed away in that big ditch he’d dug in the pits of his brain. Joshua’s voice is something he hadn’t even payed attention to. It feels like he’s hearing it for the first time. It seems foreign and new. 

"You grew up,“ the man states, as if it’s some sort of fucking revelation. 

"That’s usually what happens,“ Derek retorts a little bitchier than he’d intended. Being polite is definitely going to need a little more effort. 

Joshua nods. The way his mouth turns into a barely visible line seems somewhat oddly familiar. Derek doesn’t even want to accept the probable fact of it resembling his own mouth. He doesn’t want anything in common with this guy. 

Wishful thinking. 

The man’s eyes let Derek's go and stay motionless once they’ve settled on Talia. He’s looking straight at her. There's no scanning, no examining, no once-overs.  

"Talia.“

The way his father says her name is heavy but soft. Talia’s fingers start twitching again. Derek’s father has this look in his eye. It feels too personal, too intimate. Derek looks away.

"Joshua.“ 

Talia’s voice is barely an audible sound. If his mother weren’t gripping onto the hem of his jacket like a lifeboat, Derek would leave. The air is thick and dense with so many things he wish he couldn’t feel. Memory and regret and pain. He can sense it, the confusion and the chaos, tumbling around the abnormally large distance between them. 

"It’s good to see you.“ 

Joshua’s eyes are glazed over. Derek looks at his tattered Converse, not wanting to get sentimental. He’s no here for sentiment. He’s here for his mom. 

"It’s good to see you too.“

It feels like Talia is suddenly aging backwards, shrinking into a little girl, helplessly clutching at Derek’s jacket. She's this frightened and panicked human hiding the slightest fraction behind his right shoulder, letting him shield her from the man in front of them. 

Derek doesn’t know why, but he seriously wants to punch something. Preferably  _him_. If the social norms of today’s society were different, his knuckles would be nestled into that man's freaking cheekbone. It's a cheekbone that looks like Derek’s cheekbone. 

Red flashing lights are burning behind his eyeballs. Sirens are howling, screeching, yelling at him. 

_This was a terrible idea. Retreat, retreat, retreat._

 

♦︎  

 

Buffalo Center is a tiny, tiny speck behind the asscrack of the universe. Derek’s not even fully sure if it’s still in the back-zone of the asscrack or if it lies even farther beyond, even deeper into buttcheek abyss. He’s not even sure if people here are familiar with the internet or cellphones - or the rest of the world.

The car zooms by a sign. “Welcome to… Buffalo Center“. The flaking letters are peering at Derek behind a veil of snow. He almost downright laughs, when he catches a glimpse of a buffalo statue nestled into the sign, its profile sticking out like a cadaver split in half. The red, white, blue of the American flag is hissing and bashing with the wind a few feet above the buffalo carcass. The material is powerless, not capable of retaliating against the biting cold and the torment of the wailing air. 

" Buffalo Center. Home to 963 people and the best pancakes on earth,“ Joshua hums, as if he’s proud of the fact that he lives in a place that’s even harder to reach than the ends of asshat oblivion. Derek slumps his forehead against the backseat window, letting the frigid surface freeze his blazing red, pissed off brain.  

Buffalo Center is a ghost town, or as close as a functioning town can get to a barren dump of lost souls. That’s what the handful of people look like to him. Lost souls, hovering across the thick snow, bundled up in layers and layers of clothing like onions. Ghost onions. 

Derek can’t possibly picture this place without the ice. It seems to be a programmed image. A sleepy town covered in a blanket of snow, lulling its inhabitants into a deep doze of meaningless existence. 

The car falls back into a murmur of small talk. It's not the good kind of small talk that’s charming and light and funny. It’s the heady kind, the kind where you can practically watch the unsaid words being systematically replaced by strained attempts at communication. The atmosphere is so tense it reminds Derek of the worn out elastic bands of a slingshot. Everybody’s pulling that little pebble back as far as it could possibly go. One wrong word and that little pebble turns into a bullet of a Beretta. It simply depends on who’s going to be the target. 

It doesn’t take long for the car to pull up in front of a small cottage. “Buffalo Burgundy Inn“. Derek can’t help but think of Ron Burgundy on a buffalo. This town is slowly driving him insane, and he hasn’t even been here for longer than half an hour. Fantastic.

♦︎

 

"You ready?“ Talia asks, probably not expecting an audible answer.

Neither of them are ready. Of course they aren’t. The universe doesn’t simply fling a handbook into your crib. "How to deal with Joshuas - a guide for handling fathers who've escaped to the voids of the posterior canyon“. 

Derek looks at his mom. Ever since yesterday it seems like she’s frozen in this shrunken body of a little girl. She's nothing but this helpless, tiny thing constantly holding onto Derek’s jacket. He lets her. He needs her close. For some weird reason this feels like the most horrifying moment of his life. Watching his dad leave was one thing, seeing him again, meeting his new family, that's a whole new territory of terrifying. 

For a while he simply watches the fog of air curl out of his lips, ghosts folding themselves into whirling patterns contrasting against the dark color of the door. It’s a nice looking house. A small cottage with an attached garage and a large yard. It probably looks nice in summer when the snow is melted away, letting the green seep through the gaps. Derek isn’t completely sure about it, though. It’s debatable.

He watches Talia’s fingers quiver towards the doorbell. Her skin is pale, a slight tint of violet wrapped around the tips of her nails. 

The doorbell is a typical sound, a soft little melody strumming inside of the house. Derek feels his chest tighten up. Before he can grasp the feeling of being almost  _afraid_  of what is to come, the door opens. Derek lets the air out of his seemingly clogged up lungs. He hadn’t even noticed that he’d been holding his breath. The oxygen is seeping back into his blood flow, a welcoming relief. 

Joshua is simply made out of two large indigo specks. Derek feels like he’s staring straight into an ocean, the kind you see on posters at travel agencies. Photoshopped and perfect. 

"Hello,“ he says. Derek is still not used to his voice, the way it grumbles far too low in his neck like it’s rummaging right out of the pits of his stomach. 

"Please, come in guys.“ 

Guys. Really?  _Guys?_

The way Joshua annunciates  _guys_  makes it seem like they're old acquaintances. It almost sounds like they're friends, which is obviously not the case, most definitely fucking not. 

Talia is the first one to move. She shuffles over the ledge and into the arms of the warmth emanating out of the doorway. Derek has to pinch his fingernails into his flesh, in order for him to force some movement into his feet. The motion is laced with jumbled up thought processes and a pounding beat of “fucking run, run, run“. Derek doesn’t run, though. Where would he run to? He’s already at the ends of the earth. You can’t go much farther than butthole oblivion. Running all the way back to Beacon Hills is definitely not an option he is taking into consideration. 

Derek stabs his nails further into his skin. It surprises him that he isn’t bleeding yet. 

_You are not thinking about Stiles. Stop it._

The warmth inside the house is almost suffocating. It’s stuffy and sticks to Derek’s exposed skin, clinging to him, coaxing out his sweat. Joshua helps Thalia out of her coat. It’s the way it looks like far more than simple politeness that makes Derek’s stomach churn. Everything about this situation makes Derek want to vomit smack in the middle of the carpet under his feet. It’s a dark blue, almost black. It’s dark enough for the puke puddle to be close to non-existent once it’s washed out. 

Should he let his stomach take over and splurge out the leftover shitty hamburger he had for lunch? 

Yes? No? Maybe?

"It’s so wonderful to meet you! My name is Stacey.“

Yes. That’s a big, fat, fucking hell yes to the vomiting. 

 

♦︎

 

Derek is sitting on the living room couch, staring at this mushy, little jumble of tiny, flailing limbs. The baby looks like some abnormal human life form, an alien in a crib. His eyes are too large for his face. They're like two gigantic ocean puddles staring straight at him, swallowing him, devouring him. The thing’s name is Tommy. Derek doesn’t think aliens should be given names. 

"He’s almost two months old,“ Joshua states, an ounce of proudness gushing out between the words. Derek doesn’t know why it’s pissing him off, but the way Joshua is looking at alien Tommy, all fond and appreciative, makes his heart shrivel up. It's painful. 

"Too bad the others couldn’t come.“ 

Joshua is looking at Derek now, peering over the side of the crib, as if he’s expecting an answer. Derek doesn’t see the point of answering a question that hasn’t been asked, even though he knows very well what it is. 

_Why didn’t they come?_

_Because they hate you._

If his mom weren’t trapped in the kitchen helping Stacey or Sarah with dinner, she would’ve probably answered with some harmless white lie. 

_Cora is on a field trip, Laura is back in college over the weekend and you know how Ted’s back gets._

He watches his father straighten up, swiping non existing dirt off of the thighs of his pants. There’s a hint of a memory attached to the simple movement, something crawling out of that big things - you - want - to - forget ditch up in his head. It’s familiar. There are so many countless familiar things about the man standing in front of him, like the way he cleans his glasses every five minutes like he’s forcing to keep his hands busy, or the way he comes up with these small, barely noticeable jokes and laughs like he can’t help it, or the way he constantly taps these rhythms against his thighs like he’s a human bongo. There are so many memories stowed away in Derek’s subconscious, fighting their way out of their confinements every time he looks at Joshua, his father.

"I have to say you really grew. You’re so tall now. What the heck happened?“

The question is accompanied by a short laugh. It dies the second Derek deepens his glower. 

"Genetics and proper nutrition,“ Derek mumbles. Joshua nods his head. His mouth is doing the thin-lip thing again. It annoys Derek, because it looks so much like something he does himself. It’s distant but familiar, and it makes him incredibly uncomfortable.  

"You’re mom looks good. Both of you look good,“ he states in this analytic doctor-voice Derek's heard enough times coming from his mother. "I wish the others could’ve come as well.“ 

Derek’s raisin heart shrivels up just the slightest bit more. The corners of the thin line of Joshua’s mouth are drooping downward. He looks sad. Derek should feel like Joshua needs to be sad. Derek should be content that he’s sad. He's the one who's brought this on himself. 

But Derek doesn’t feel content about it. He doesn’t enjoy the feeling of powerlessness pulling his shoulders into the couch.  

Why is he feeling sorry for someone who left him, who left  _them_. He shouldn’t. He won’t.

Joshua shifts from one foot onto the other, all the while staring at the floor or his baby alien. Derek can’t be sure from where he’s sitting.  

It’s quiet again. Derek can practically count the scarce times they’ve actually kept a somewhat human conversation going on one single hand. Three times. None of those three times had been about the giant issue looming over their heads like rainclouds, fat and heavy and ready to piss all over their parade. Not that there are any parades going on. It’s more of a funeral type thing. Sad and bleak. 

"Your mother told me you want to become a doctor as well?“ his father finally asks. 

So they’ve been talking. 

Derek wants to nod. He's already straightening his posture in the cushions, but then he’s opening his mouth and this absolutely foreign word stumbles over his tongue. He doesn’t have time to push it back in, or to understand what it means.

"Maybe.“

It feels like the remnants of the word are tapered to the inside of his mouth, and it tastes weird, really, really weird. 

Maybe. 

_Maybe?_

When the hell did Derek’s thoroughly thought through future turn into a “maybe“? He’s been in contact with the HMS admissions office. He's taken tours of the campus. He's already prepping to take the MCAT in his senior year in college. Derek has med school written all over his bespectacled face, so why the hell did he just say “maybe“?

"You’re a Hale. You’d be a great doctor. Harvard right? You’ll love it there. It really suits you. The professors are amazing to work with and it’s you’re kind of crowd. Did I say that right? 'Crowd'?"

And then Joshua starts stammering away, losing himself in compliments and enthusiastic encouragements. He says things like “it really fits to  _you_ “ and “ _you’ll_  do great“, as if he knows Derek, as if he hadn’t fallen from the face of the earth for the past twelve years, as if they’re friends or family. Derek knows he’s genetically bound to the man standing in front of him. He knows he’s related to the chubby, little E.T. bundled up in a crib only arms-length away. 

Joshua is talking about clinical ethics, neurosciences and behavioral medicine, and all Derek is thinking about is how much he just wants to run away. 

 

♦︎

 

Dinner is a catastrophe. It isn’t some harrowing chaos. No food is being flung through the air. There's no deafening shouting or crying or hate. 

It’s too polite, too quiet. It’s as if everybody is caging away their thoughts, letting them silently rummage around in their minds like wild animals rattling at the bars of their prisons to be set free. Derek doesn’t say a word. He simply gobbles down as much pasta as he can, trying his best not to throw it all back up. Stacey keeps on trying to engage him in some sort of conversation, but she gives up, her blue eyes avoiding his glowering glances every time they make unwanted eye contact. She’s pretty. Blonde curls and ruddy cheeks. Forgettable, though. Derek will probably never think of her again once he flies back to Beacon Hills. Just like this whole entire sleepy, little town, Stacey is forgettable. 

Talia tries her best to smile and engage in conversation. There’s fake humor and fake interest and fake understanding. She’s good at that. Pretending. Derek respects her for it - and also doesn't. She’s the kind of person who doesn’t pull the bull by it’s horns. She’ll simply win its trust and befriend it. It’s always been a mystery to him where Cora and Laura had gotten their fiery feistiness from. Satan probably.

Derek hates the politeness and the civilized conversations. He doesn’t like the way everyone is touching each other with silk gloves. Alien Tommy is the only who doesn’t give a crap. The thing bashing around in his toddler seat, stuffing baby mush into his ears. 

Derek wants to see someone scream. He wants to see anger, wants his mother to put Joshua right on the spot, wants her to shout at him, wants her to turn him into a fucking deer in the headlights. 

Because Derek’s too much of a coward to do it all himself. 

Isn’t that just the story of his life.

 

♦︎

 

The cold air is welcoming. It floods through Derek, pushes away the stuffy heat and replaces it with something fresh and breathable. Talia is already walking towards Joshua’s car, practically racing down the driveway, as if she can’t get away fast enough. Derek is holding back the urge to do so himself, his body trying to accumulate any last ounce of restraint. His father is walking by his side. There’s a careful distance between them, colder and more bitter than the winter air itself. 

"Derek.“ Joshua stops walking. Derek forces his feet forward, but there’s a large hand curling around his shoulder, lightly pressing him back, forcing him to stop. Derek doesn’t turn around. He simply stares at the snow leaking into the openings of his Converse, concentrating on the feeling of the ice melting into his socks, stinging his skin with frosty needles. Stupid Converse.

"It was really, really wonderful seeing you again.“ 

There’s something heavy in his father's voice. The words don’t sound strained or forced. They’re just there. Honesty and sincerity are floating around in the air, waiting for Derek to reciprocate. 

Derek doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He never does, and it pisses him off. Derek is pissed off, the blazing sensation boiling with something so much worse than hurt or anger. 

"I hope that this isn’t the last time, I hope -“

"Could you just stop!“ 

What the fuck. The tone seems far too volatile for it to have come out of Derek's mouth. Somewhere between staring at alien Tommy burp out baby mush and listening to Stacey ramble about gothic decor being the interior decorator's backbone, Derek has taken enough control over his brain to press out real, actual words. 

He turns around and stares into giant, shocked indigo. 

"Just stop with the bullshit!“ he spits. Derek doesn’t know where all of this is coming from, or how he’s even capable of sounding so determined, of  _being_  so determined. The feeling makes his shoulders straighten, and this odd sense of power seems to be keeping his head up high. He’s not turning back from this. He has no idea where the heck “this“ is going, and the fact that he doesn’t even care makes it invigorating. 

"Derek I -“

"No. The whole entire evening you’ve been pretending like you know me. You’re wrong. You don’t. You’re not my friend or my father. You’re not even someone I know. You’re a  _stranger_.“

Joshua’s hands jerk slightly, a small error in his otherwise motionless stance. He’s listening. At least he’s listening.

"And you left us. You think you can just send us some color containers and invite us for dinner and it’s all going to be okay? It doesn’t work like that! Why do you think the others didn’t want to come?“ 

Derek’s chest is heaving, his throat feels soar and he can feel his fingers digging little moon crescents into the pads of his palms.  Never in his life has he said so much, so fast, so angry. And he can’t stop. All he can think about is to keep on going. He’s not thinking. It makes the anger worse, but it makes him feel like he’s more in control than he has ever been  _with_  his thinking switched on. He’s pissed off, and he’s letting it out. This is twelve years of pent - up anger. 

"You can’t just pretend like you weren’t missing for the past twelve years. You never even bothered to call or write. You didn't tell us what the hell was going on. You just left. No explanations, no apologies. You just left. I didn't have a father for twelve years! Who the hell does that?! Do you know how much it hurts seeing you with a new family? With  _another_  family?“ 

Joshua’s eyes are glazed over, his mouth a thin line, his face defeated and hurt. Derek’s shouting now. He knows that Stacey can hear him, that his mom can hear him, that the whole entire neighborhood can hear him, but for once in his life he doesn’t care. He doesn’t  _want_  to care. 

"And I know I’m just a kid and that I can’t possibly understand, but the least you could do is stop pretending. Just stop acting like everything’s alright. Just drop the act. For Talia. You need to talk to her, and don’t tell me you don’t have to because you do.“ 

The way Joshua is looking at him makes him seem like something even more foreign than a stranger. He's nothing but a detached unknown with gigantic blue eyes. Joshua isn’t moving, only breathing. All Derek can see is the rising and falling of his chest, the expanding and retreating causing the material of his jacket to quietly shuffle. Tiny specks of white are floating around the man. Derek almost thinks it’s a trick of the street lantern light, before he rips himself out of his heated daze. It’s snowing. Derek watches the flakes of white cotton hover across the front yard for a few deep breaths before looking back at Joshua. He knows what he’s saying is hurting the man. The words are hurting Derek himself, but Joshua needs to know. 

"She loves you and she needs to say goodbye the right way - the way she deserves.“ 

Those are the last words Derek says to his father before returning to California. 

 

♦︎

 

Derek has three missed calls by the time he’s back at the Inn. The place reminds him of old things, of dust and mold and sandwiches you leave in your locker for too long. It’s literally the only thing he can think about when he walks past old Mrs. Carsons. The woman is knitting irregular shaped mittens behind the reception. She gives him a toothless grin. Derek tries his best to answer it in a humanly acceptable manner. 

The cottage room feels far too small for him the second he’s standing between the decaying commode and the creaky bed, consisting of a mattress stiffer than Jackson Whittemore’s super gelled beach weave. Even the floor is more comfortable and less dusty. It feels like Derek is inside a long lost tomb. 

Just what he needs after an evening of pent-up frustration and shouting at the second part of his DNA for the whole entire neighborhood to hear. 

It took Derek far too long to cool back down. During the whole entire - painfully silent - car ride back, his brain had been nothing but a reverse-popsicle. 

Derek settles onto the edge of the bed, pushing away all thoughts of his mother sitting at the diner down the road with Joshua. He hopes his father had taken his words seriously. He hopes they’re actually  _talking_. He needs them to. 

He punches around the digits of his phone, unlocking it in order to figure out who’s been calling him. People don’t call Derek. His lack of usage of coherent words is probably one of the reasons or the _only_ reason.

There’s a silent pang exploding against the insides of his chest. The ice cold room abruptly feels far too warm, far too thick. 

_Three missed calls: Stiles S._

Great. Just great. Isn’t that just the crappy cherry on top of the colossal mountain of all things confusing in the world. And if the mere awareness of Stiles calling him hadn't been enough, his Nokia starts vibrating right on queue, as if the universe is bored and really just wants to thoroughly blow shit up. It’s succeeding. 

Derek doesn’t know if he should pick up. He feels like hurling his phone into the toilet, flushing it and sitting on the lid, as if that would keep all the unheard words from gushing out between the gaps. He lets the phone ring until the humming vibrations are molding into Derek’s palm. His skin is prickling and tingling long after Stiles hangs up. Derek keeps on staring at the white display, watching the way the little luminous lines crackle and glitch up the screen. After an aeon of gawking Derek stuffs the phone under his pillow. He feels like he’s six years old again. 

_If you can’t see it, it’s not there._

The phone starts vibrating, bouncing and reverberating under the pillow. 

_Nope. It’s not there._

The buzzing cranks up, murmuring louder and louder until it becomes this deafening drone, screaming for every ounce of Derek’s currently averted attention. It’s incredibly difficult keeping that attention averted when the whole entire foundation of the tiny room is practically rattling with each and every vibration.  Derek lets out a groan before scrambling for the phone. He stares at the display for a bleak moment. 

What is he going to say? What is Stiles going to say? 

Derek smacks the phone against his forehead. And then he’s pressing his thumb over the green button, languidly dragging the speaker against his ear.  The first thing he hears are pounding rhythms. They're so loud, the speakers start crackling and fizzing, distorting the sounds into ugly groans. 

"Stiles?“ 

Voices start mumbling through the pounding background noise, fighting themselves into Derek’s ear canal. One of them belongs to Stiles. It’s him. He knows. 

"Deeeereeek.“

Stiles is drunk. 

"Heyhooo. Deeereeek.“

Very drunk. 

"Stiles?“ 

It’s barely a real sound, low and breathy. Stiles doesn’t say anything. The only thing Derek can make out is the voices mixing with the pounding beat of the background. He must be at a party or a club. Derek doesn’t know. Derek doesn’t care. The anger is eating its way back into his gut. The feeling is familiar by now. He’s been angry a lot lately. 

Derek stays quiet. He even tones down the sound of his breathing, as if he doesn’t want to miss a single thing coming from the other end of the line. 

The sounds fade and fade and fade, until the crackling of the speaker completely disappears, and all Derek can hear is Stiles’ breathing and fragments of the barbaric rhythms. 

"Stiles!“ 

Nothing. 

"Stiles?“ 

Sobbing. 

"Stiles.“

Crying. 

"Stiles.“

Something that sounds like a blubbering apology. 

Derek doesn’t know how long he keeps the phone pressed against his ear. He listens. He listens until his fingers go numb and his eyes can’t take the look the Jesus figurine is giving him from the desk by the window. If Derek did believe in a god, he’d pray. Maybe for a miracle or maybe for anything to just make it all stop. All of it. Everything. Preferably the world. Even better, the universe. 

 

♦︎

 

Talia doesn’t look like a little girl anymore. The woman seated next to him on the flight back to California looks like his mother again. She’s not happy. She’s not sad. There’s something distinctly different about her. Something small, barely noticeable is missing, something that has been part of her for a very long time. Derek doesn’t know what it is and he doesn’t ask. All Derek knows is that they’re both leaving something behind, deep down in the depths of buttcrack central. They’re abandoning something, leaving it in the midst of the ghost onions and the grasps of the ten inch snow, letting it morph into the mixture of the forgettable. It's somewhere down there with Stacey and the Jesus figurine. 

And never has that epiphany fish hook in Derek's chest hurt so much less.  

 

♦︎

 

The first thing Derek feels like doing, after they walk into the hallway of the Hale house, is sleep. He wants to sleep until his body never yearns for it again. In a way it feels like Talia and him are war veterans, dragging their battered bodies back home after a gruesome battle. He doesn’t know if they won or lost. It’s somewhere in the middle, torn between victory and defeat.

Cora’s the first to skitter into the hallway and fling herself at the two of them, clinging to them like a human octopus. Talia lets out a noise that sounds close to a small giggle. Derek hasn’t heard her laugh the whole entire weekend. It feels like he hasn’t heard that sound in forever. 

Laura is the next one to race towards them, spreading her arms wide and morphing around the human Hale - bundle in the middle of the hallway. It doesn’t take long for grandpa Ted to shuffle around the corner. He’s wearing Laura’s sparkly bunny slippers. Ted hugs him. Derek lets him. 

"God, this is getting so emotional. Get into the kitchen. Laura made vegan hot coco,“ Cora muffles against her mother’s shoulder. Derek grunts at that. The one thing he hadn’t missed in Buffalo Center had been Laura’s vegan craze.  

"Yeah,“ Talia whispers into the human Hale - bundle. "Yeah, let’s do that. I missed the vegan.“

No, she didn’t, but it’s nice hearing the word. It’s terrifying but familiar, and at this point that’s the only thing that counts. 

"To the kitchen!“ Ted shouts, a wrinkly finger swooshing into the air. 

Derek’s smile tugs a little wider when he watches the old man moonwalk around the corner of the hallway. His grandpa can moonwalk. Derek is related to a telekinetic moonwalker with spiderman reflexes. What else? 

"I’ll catch up. I'm just gonna bring my bags upstairs.“ 

Derek untangles himself from the tight grasps of his sisters. Laura is giving him this look. It's a little worried, a little scared, a little tormented. But before Derek has a chance to fully analyze her stare, he feels a familiar buzz work its way up his thigh. 

It’s Scott. It’s 1:30 am on a monday morning. Scott has never called Derek before. Derek knows there’s something not right. 

"Derek?“

"Yeah.“

"It’s Stiles.“

_Isn’t it always._

♦︎

 

"So, I went over to Stiles’ house the other day to bring him some bio papers and stuff, because he’s been flunking a hell of a lot lately. And then, like Maria told me he hasn’t been home since Thursday night and well, if he - stays over at someone's place, he usually doesn’t leave without his  - uh - his meds.“

Scott side-eyes Derek from the driver’s seat, as if he’s trying to make sure the word hadn’t freaked him out. Derek is freaked out, but it has nothing to do with the meds. 

"So, where do you think he is?“

"I called him like a million times and he finally picked up, but he didn’t want to tell me where he was.“

Judging by the defeated look on Scott’s face, that hadn’t been the only thing Stiles had told him. Scott’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel until his knuckles turn painfully white, and his muscles are so strained they look like they’re going to snap right out of his skin. 

"But I heard club beats in the background. So, I was hoping he’s at Simmons street.“

Erica tells Derek wild adventure stories of neon strip clubs and gay bars and the best midnight burgers that have ever been created whenever she feels like sharing what she’s been up to on Fridays. Simmons street sounds like everything Derek wants to avoid in life. Especially the burgers. Nobody makes better burgers than the “Snack Shack“.

"But I mean, what do I know? What if we don’t find him? I mean, what if he leaves before we even get there? What if he - Jesus fucking Christ!“ Scott shouts, jerking the steering wheel to the right, abruptly hurling the two of them into the straps of their seat belts. It feels like someone is punching Derek in the chest, jamming all the air out of his lungs. Derek coughs. Scott slams his palm against the vehicle horn, his middle finger already wedged out of the rolled down window. An obscene amount of honks echo right back, mixing with a string of incoherent cussing. 

"Yeah, yeah screw you too!“ the boy yells, his cheeks flushed, his neck straining around the words. It’s quiet for a while. There's nothing but the leftover echoes of honking and the rugged wheezing coming out of Derek’s seemingly deflated lungs. Scott’s hand comes up to frantically flatten a few frizzy curls. He looks worried and incredibly pissed off. Derek feels the same. 

"Sorry,“ he mumbles. "That ass came out of nowhere.“

Derek shifts in his seat, rearranging the seatbelt cutting into the skin under his neck. 

"You want me to drive?“ 

It’s a tentative question, polite almost. Derek doesn’t actually want to. He’d probably sliver them off the road in a split second. Scott shakes his head. Left, right, left, right. The rhythm goes on for a long time, until it seems like the boy has completely forgotten the fact that he’d been doing it in the first place.

"No - I don’t know. I’m freaking out! He’s probably out with those fucked up coke heads. They’re not good for him. I just hope he’s okay. I know I might be overreacting, but it’s Stiles you know? It’s been real bad since-“

The shaking stops. Scott slightly turns towards Derek, his dark eyes reflecting the flare of the headlights. They seem larger than usual, ad if they're ripped open a little too wide. 

"I know you two hooked up or something. Did you know that Stiles talked to me? Like really legit talked to me? Just like we used to. For an hour straight. No pretending. No bullshit. And I knew it had something to do with you, because for a while he was like this crazy ray of sunshine. The messed up part was that instead of feeling _happy_  for him, it just got me even more worried. Fuck. I was so scared, because I know the happier he gets the harder he falls. You know what I mean? Because he always falls back. Those freaking relapses. It’s like he thinks he doesn’t deserve to be happy, like he’s afraid of it or something. And now he’s pulling this stuff and -  _fuck_!“ Scott barks, slamming a hand against the steering wheel. His eyes are damp. Derek doesn’t know how to handle crying people. 

"I just hope - I  _need_  it to not be like last time. He -“ The constant shaking of Scott’s head is back. His bundle of curls are bobbing right and left. It’s barely there, a slight glitch, a slight blur in his otherwise crystal image. "I had to bring him to the hospital. He had to get his stomach pumped out.“ Scott’s voice is cracking, every second word somewhat broken, his larynx struggling to keep themselves together. And then he starts laughing. Manic. 

"I fucking hate him. I hate him. I hate him,“ Scott repeats again and again, matching the rhythm to the pace of the constant shaking of his head. It’s an opposing motion to the words that he’s letting spill across his lips. Derek knows he doesn’t mean it, because Derek doesn’t either. No matter how many times he says he needs to give up, to let go, to  _hate,_ he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.

Derek’s not sure what to do with the feelings creeping from his chest into his brain and back, clashing, fighting and clawing at the walls of his insides. 

His head feels like a giant mechanical bingo ball blower, mixing his thoughts like numbered ping pong balls. He’s thinking about indigo oceans and hurt and regret. He’s thinking about his hand around an ankle, his fingers brushing over neon orange. He’s thinking about the earth-shattering “ _maybe_ “ and the crack in his future. He’s thinking about baby aliens and sketchbooks and bubble gum wrappers. He’s thinking about Talia and her goodbyes and wether she sees Joshua in the faces of her own children. He’s thinking about crimson blood trickling over cupid bow lips and two smiles that quirk the tiniest bit more to the right than to the left. He’s thinking about cigarette smoke and how much it resembles your own breath in winter. He’s thinking about a broken boy in a hospital bed, letting a machine wash his insides out. 

And then all Derek's thinking about is Single Malt Scotch Whiskey.

 

♦︎

 

They pull over at a Walmart parking lot. It’s a stupid place to put a Walmart, or it's a stupid place to establish a club area. Walmarts and clubs don’t work together. Then again, Walmart is a whole entire freak show on its on. So maybe it fits. Maybe. 

Scott is one giant human ball of tension. Everything he does seems far too forceful, too frantic. The boy slams the door of the car so hard Derek can feel the pang rippling through his own chest. His curls are a frizzy chaos, sticking up into every direction possible. A phone is pressed against his ear, his fingers constantly fiddling. Scott shouts out another “fuck“ when Stiles apparently doesn’t answer. 

"Can you try and call him?“ he asks, his words a little too rushed for Derek to understand them right away. Scott is expectantly cocking his head forward. Derek forcefully pulls himself together, slamming his tangled thoughts out of the way. His fingers go numb against the icy air, as he presses his Nokia against the side of his face. Scott starts walking towards Simmons streets, towards pounding rhythms and bright lights. The rhythms are the kind Derek had heard when Stiles had called him yesterday. He remembers the noise. He remembers the crying. 

Derek follows Scott, pacing his steps in time with the beeps crackling through the speakers. Nothing. Stiles doesn’t pick up. 

"He’s not picking up.“

"Of course he isn’t.“

Scott’s laughing again. It has this bizarre psychotic vibe to it. It fits to the mad scientist hair he has going on and the abnormally large eyes. 

Simmons Street is a stretch of neon signs and noise and drunks spilling out of bars and clubs. Different kinds of sounds are echoing across the concrete jungle, clashing against each other, causing the air to sound like a cacophonous chaos of melodies and rhythms. Derek feels like he’s being pulled into a raging war of technicolor clashing, music fighting for dominance, smells trying to overtrump each other. He doesn’t know what to concentrate on first. His mind is being ripped from one object of attention to the other and back, until the world is a whirling blob of neon and noise. 

A group of girls huddle past them, throwing lewd remarks and terribly executed winks over their shoulders. It’s far too cold for people to be capable of surviving in miniskirts and tank tops. That’s one clothing article away from hypothermia. Or half. Those can’t even be called  _skirts_. Jesus. 

Scott grabs Derek’s bicep, pulling him through the ocean of people and smoke. Derek tries to concentrate on nothing else but the pressure of Scott’s fingers against his flesh, the stumbling of his own feet and the surprisingly steady rhythm of his breathing. He’s sucking in the cold, breathing out the warmth. It’s calming. Breathing is calming.

The next two hours are filled with bitchy bouncers, inappropriate groping, washing out beer stains and lots and lots of worrying. Scott is becoming antsier by the second, his fingers constantly drumming against every single surface they encounter. The back of a door, his right thigh, the bar counter, the bathroom sink.

"Okay, if we don’t find him here - I swear to god I’m going to -“ Scott doesn’t finish the sentence. They don’t find Stiles in the “Bongo Bar“. 

Scott swears. Derek silently stares at the floor. 

They shove their way out of the crowded bar, dodging hovering beer bottles and sharp corners of elbows. The green exit sign is like a beacon of hope. Scott nudges Derek out the back door, the two of them gulping the frigid air, letting it cleanse out the stuffy linger of smoke clumping up their bloodstreams.  

"Greg, stop.“

Derek freezes. He knows that voice far too well. The fact that the intoxicated slur is a little more familiar than when it’s sober, is sad to say the least. 

A smudge of ginger is stuck against the concrete wall, hovering between two dumpsters. In the flare of the residue of neon lights Greg’s hair looks like a blazing patch of fire. The boy has his back faced towards them, his hands nestled into the concrete wall, caging in a limp mess of a human being. 

Greg is murmuring small words into the cage of limbs, causing Stiles to struggle and fight his way out. It’s powerless retaliation. Greg doesn’t move. 

" Screw you, Greg," the boy slurs, limp hands pushing against Greg’s chest. Greg starts laughing. It’s gruff and just as ugly as Derek remembers. 

The sound awakens this wild ball of rage in the pits of Derek’s stomach. It fuels a kind of heat that reaches so much farther than despise. The rush of mindlessness is back and it’s flaming red and dangerous. Derek has never heard Stiles sound so helpless, so vulnerable. And it’s all because of Greg. Fucking, stupid, ginger Greg.

"Hey!“ Derek barks. "Get the hell away from him.“

Greg doesn’t react. The other boy doesn’t even flinch, merely inches closer towards Stiles, a feral grin cut into the bottom of his face. Large bourbon eyes are peeking out from under the other boy’s arm. Stiles' eyes go even wider when Derek’s face seems to seep through his drunken haze. It's recognition and something heavier, something that makes Derek’s stomach drop one hundred feet. 

"Greg, let him go,“ Derek warns. 

"Stiles?“ Scott’s voice is near, the shuffling of his boots coming closer. 

"Fuck off,“ Greg spits. He turns his head, his eyes nailing Derek’s head into place. There’s no surprise in the specks of dark green. There's no shock. He remembers Derek. Greg’s smile widens into a toothy cheshire grin. Something about it looks savage and brutal, and it makes Derek want to punch him, hard and fast and painful.

The unfamiliar feeling is back. The same feeling he’d had in the front yard of Joshua’s house. It's the exhilarating feeling of wanting to let go. And that’s exactly what Derek does.

He’s being struck by lightning, his body responding on its own, not hesitating, not overthinking, just  _doing_. Derek lunges forward, shoving Greg away from the wall. Greg lets out a maniacal laugh. Derek has never hated something this much, not since Mrs. Ferlington and her stupid theories about homosexuals materializing out of Satin’s butthole. 

The old bitch.

The next thing he knows, a stinging pain is rippling towards the expanse of his arm from where it’s burrowed into the other boy’s jaw. It hurts. It hurts a hell of a lot, but Derek doesn’t care, because it feels good. 

Greg tumbles backwards, his arms bashing for balance like a human windmill. A stifled groan tumbles across his lips and before Derek can bathe in the violent afterglow of inflicting physical pain on the human embodiment of an elephant’s asshole, Greg is hurling himself forward, his shoulder slamming into Derek’s chest, causing him to stumble onto the pavement. His fingers reflexively curl themselves into the stiff fabric of his coat, forcing Greg to tumble down with him. The impact of the gravel against the back of his head is a deafening pain. It feels like a million hot little needles are jackhammering into his scalp. The pain is followed by a jolt of agony, when he feels the distinct ripple of knuckles burry themselves into the skin stretched over his cheekbone. It feels like the whole entire part of his right face is going numb, the pain lingering in a wave of tingles.

Derek pulls himself out of the aching haze as fast as he can, retaliating with another punch. He doesn’t know what part of Greg he hits, doesn’t care. The world is a dark blob of leftover neon and shadows. His glasses are probably somewhere scattered on the ground of the alleyway, lying between stray beer bottles and cigarette stubs. His knuckles feel raw, his face is burning, and his stomach is revolting against each and every jab it receives. It’s probably Greg’s knee or the tip of his shoe. Derek doesn’t know. Grunting and hoarse groans fill his ear canal. They mix with the sound of his own name. It’s a small noise, barely capable of fighting its way through the rushing roar of adrenaline. Scott or Stiles. Derek can’t tell the difference at this point.

Pain is everything there is, slowly morphing into his world -  _becoming_  his world. It’s nothing but a red haze, leaving him no other choice than to keep on fighting. There’s a metal tang spreading across his taste buds. Blood. He lets his tongue roam around the insides of his cheeks. Raw and cut and bleeding. Derek feels the anger burn brighter, warmer, stronger. A violent firework is fizzing in his gut, urging him to punch and kick and shove.  

"Break it up!“ 

A gruff voice fights its way through the savage rushing in his ears. Strong hands dig into his shoulder blades, pulling him, ripping him away from the painfully warm body above him. The pain stops, the agonizing remnants of it stay, ghosting hits still tethered into his flesh. Derek growls. He wiggles his way out of the grip, hurling himself forward. He wants to rip this guy’s head off. At this point he doesn’t even have enough functioning braincells to be frightened by his own barbaric thoughts. He wants to fucking kill this guy. Literally. 

"Hey, pipe the fuck down, kid!“ 

Another pair of hands are on him, pressing him down, keeping him away. It feels like his bones are going to snap under the pressure. 

There’s laughter. It’s psychotic. It’s Greg. Derek abhors Greg. A loud smack rips through the white noise. The right side of Derek’s face is scorching with a spasming pain, mingling with the leftover burn of the other punches. It feels like someone just pried his cheeks open, raw and hot. Derek just got smacked by a Bouncer. He hates Bouncers. He also hates Greg. He really, really hates Greg.   


"Who’s are these?“

"They’re his.“

Something cool and plastic settles onto the bridge of his nose. It's a familiar feeling, almost welcoming. The world is sharpening, distinctly taking shapes that he can recognize. A dumpster, the outlines of a door, a neon green sign. 

Bongo Bar. Bongo Bar. Bongo Bar. Bourbon. Stiles. 

Derek straightens his crooked glasses. There’s a blurry crack etched into his left lens, distorting the image of the boy. Stiles is slumped against Scott’s shoulder. His eyes are bloodshot red. Wet streaks are flowing down his flushed cheeks.

He’s crying. Derek doesn’t want Stiles to cry. Derek wants to fucking kill Greg. 

 

♦︎

 

Once Derek comes down form the rush of his adrenaline high, he falls hard, real hard. His brain feels like it’s in the throes of something rapid and vicious, rattling against the walls of his skull. His head is a buzzing mass of agony. His limbs feel heavy, each movement a painful reminder of fucking  _Greg_. He hasn’t checked his reflection yet. He doesn’t want to. The blood is probably crusted under his nostrils, and it’s doubtful his mouth doesn’t look like a blood drenched battlefield. It definitely tastes like one. Metal and tangy. 

The bouncers had thrown them out of the alleyway, threatening that they’d call the cops. Scott had immediately gripped Derek and dragged him back towards the Walmart parking lot. Derek is pretty sure he would've gone back to punching Greg until the cops would’ve shown up if it weren’t for Scott. He can still hear the hoarse, crackling of his laughter in the car. It's as if he’s right there, sitting next to him, laughing until his voice gives up, until it’s nothing but wheezing air struggling to push its way out of his lungs. 

Stiles had practically vomited his guts out. First on the shoes of one of the bouncers and then out the window of the car. Derek feels like throwing up as well. It feels like Greg kicked the leftovers of the airplane food right back up his throat. 

Stiles is slumped against him, his head lolling and rolling around on his thigh. He’s mumbling little words Derek can’t make out over the roaring of the engine. Scott has his foot practically jammed against the accelerator, driving way past the speed limit. The car feels like a mini space shuttle, pressing their bodies into the seats. It almost feels like they're being sucked right into the leather. But Derek couldn’t care less at this point. His quaking hands are unknowingly painting small patterns into Stiles’ back, warming up the material. He can feel every little shiver, every little tremble through the contact. His thigh feels wet. Stiles is still crying. 

"It’s not as bad as I thought it would be, but we should head over to my house just in case my mom -“

"No!“ Stiles yells. Derek’s shoulders jerk upward at the sudden sound. "No, no, no, no,“ Stiles babbles. 

"Stiles, you’re -“ Scott starts, but he's immediately cut off by Stiles shouting out another string of slurred “no“. The words are being pressed into Derek’s jeans, heating up the skin beneath. Stiles is burning up even more. His heartbeat is accelerating into a reckless tempo. Derek can feel it. He can almost  _hear_  it. Stiles is shaking his head, jerking it back and forth. It's a motion that seems far too fast.  

"Stop,“ Stiles breathes. "Stop the car. Stop.“ 

Scott immediately swivels to the side of the road. A honk zooms past them, the thundering wheels of a truck pulling a blanket of wind. Derek can feel it whip through the open window like chilly wake up call. Stiles is trembling under his touch. He’s breathing, and it’s too fast, abnormally fast. 

"Shit, shit, shit,“ Scott blurts. He races out of the car, and practically rips the back seat door out of its hinges. "Derek, stay in the car.“

"What are you - “

"Panic attack. Stay in the car.“ Scott is yelling at him. It’s unwanted. Probably. It’s just agitation. Maybe.

_Panic attack._

Scott is dragging Stiles out of the car, settling him next to the open door. His eyes are ripped open, giant black marbles staring at his best friend. He looks so frightened, it almost seems like he's lost. Derek can’t see Stiles from where he’s sitting. He can only hear him. 

_It_. 

All he can hear is the sound of the panic attack inhibiting the boy's body. His rapid breaths are broken and gasping, as if he can’t get enough air into his lungs. Derek doesn’t know what happens during a panic attack or its triggers or its effects. All he can think about is  _panic_. Heavy and inescapable panic. He doesn’t want to stay in the car. He wants to help Stiles, but he doesn’t know how. Derek doesn’t know how to help him. He doesn’t even know how to move anymore. His limbs feel like they're glued against the backseat, stapled into the leather. He’s like a captive in his own body.

"Okay, Stiles, can you hear me? What you’re feeling is scary, but it’s not dangerous. Concentrate on me. Yes. Good. Look at me. Good. Now we're going to breathe together. Slow and steady. We’ll breathe in together and out. Watch me do it. I’m breathing in five seconds and out five seconds. T en seconds of breathing. Take my hand. Squeeze it when you’re ready. Good. Now we’re going to breathe in - and out. You’re doing a great job. Now we’re going to do this a couple of times. Alright? Just concentrate on the breathing. You need to stay here with me okay? I’m not going anywhere, Stiles, but I need you to stay in the present. With me. Here.“ 

Scott is careful. His voice is slow and steady. He’s patient with Stiles, holding onto his hand, looking so reassuring. Scott knows what he’s doing. Derek is incredibly thankful and incredibly horrified. Stiles is having a panic attack. He's having a fucking panic attack. 

"Tell me what you need?“

"Water. Water.“ The words are shaky and distorted by heaving gasps of air. 

"Derek?“ Scott is peering into the car. Derek feels like his muscles don’t work anymore, like his bones are far too heavy for him to make them move. He can’t make them move.

"Derek, it’s in the left glove compartment. “ 

He can’t move. 

"Derek!“

A moment of motionlessness and then Derek snaps out of it, shuffling forward, his hands shaking as they try their best to open the glove compartment. Never has pressing down a goddamned button taken so long. The water bottle is slipping between his sweaty fingers, almost tumbling onto the floor. He doesn’t know how, but he somehow manages to hand the bottle to Scott. Scott is smiling at him. It’s pained and heavy with worry, but it’s enough to make him feel an ounce of  _alright_. It’s enough to make him feel like everything’s going to be okay, or as close to okay as the world could possibly get at this point. 

It takes a felt eternity until Stiles has calmed down. It takes exactly 12 minutes. 720 minutes of absolute terror and all Derek had been capable of doing was stare holes into space. He feels like he’s been trapped in a deep trance, filled with nothing but ice cold air and pain and helplessness. 

Scott finally manages to help Stiles back into the car. Stiles’ eyes are hollow, as if someone dug two ditches into his eye sockets, filling them with absolutely nothing. Cold and empty nothing. Derek pulls him closer. Stiles lets him. He curls his fingers into the material of Derek’s jacket, holding on tight. It feels like the night during the lacrosse game. It feels like Stiles is afraid Derek will just disappear. Derek doesn’t want to disappear. He can’t. He won't.

Stiles sluggishly kicks and screams when Scott tries to bring him to his house. 

"I don’t want - Leave. Please. Scott, please go. Just go,“ he murmurs. The words sound painful. Scott looks angry and incredibly sad. He doesn’t say anything, simply nods and drives up Willow road, pulling the breaks at house number 36. 

"If he starts panicking, just stay calm. Short, simple sentences. Encourage him, but don’t tell him everything’s going to be alright. That makes it worse. Try to calm down his breathing and make him do things that need physical effort, something that will tire him out if he does it for a while. Look I - “ Scott stops, something flashes across his face and when he mumbles that he’ll just send Derek the details by SMS, Derek knows that isn’t what he had intended to say. 

"Take care of him. Text me okay?“ Scott’s brown eyes are frantically flicking over Derek’s features. Derek nods. He can’t speak at this point. Derek is about to heave Stiles out of the car when Scott shifts in his seat. 

"Derek?“

Derek turns to face him. 

"Thanks for smashing that guy’s nuts. I mean, dude. Really. You turned into the incredible Hulk back there.“

It’s supposed to sound funny. He doesn’t smile, though. Neither does Derek. He just nods. 

 

♦︎

 

Stiles doesn’t talk much once Derek heaves him into the bathtub. The situation is incredibly familiar. _Deja - vu_ , his mind supplies. Except Stiles doesn’t say anything. He’s even stopped crying. The boy is just a complete motionless, silent life form curled up against the white porcelain of the bathtub. If Stiles weren’t breathing Derek would’ve thought he were dead.

Derek tries his best to be as gentle as possible, to say small things that sound encouraging and kind, when all his mind wants him to do is shout and scream and go completely batshit. It’s confusing, because never has the urge to just speak his mind been this incredibly strong. If Stiles weren’t intoxicated, if he weren’t prone to another panic attack, Derek would actually be thoroughly freaking out. He’d really do it. He would. He would let it all out. 

_Tell me what the fuck is wrong with you? We had orgasms in Boyd’s kitchen together for god’s sake! I used to eat sandwiches on that counter top! What the fuck?! And then you give me your sketchbook as a Christmas present! You gave me a freaking Christmas present! One second you’re there and the next you’re not. I don’t get your stupid mixed signals. Why did you kiss me last friday? Why the hell did you call me if you’re obviously avoiding me? Why are you doing this to yourself? Why? Why? Why?_

_Why are you doing this to me?_

The last question is so selfish Derek is embarrassed of even thinking it. And yet it’s there, tapered to the inside of his skull, silently waiting for an answer that is never going to come. 

Derek turns away from the boy in the bathtub, not being capable of controlling his thoughts when he’s looking at the pale, freckled mess. 

He’s staring at a bruised, bespectacled meat bag. Derek looks like shit. A hue of violet is spattered against the bone of his right cheek. His left eye socket is dipped into leaking purple, and the dried blood trickling out of his nose looks almost black in the glow of the white hospital lights. To top it all of, his bottom lip is completely busted. Great. Talia is going to freak out, and Derek is going to have to come up with a better lie than “It’s perfectly acceptable for an 18 year old to suddenly forget how to ride a bike, mom“.  

Derek tries to clean himself up as best as he can. The movements are painfully strained, as if he's turned into a rusty human door hinge. His muscles feel tight, each motion aching and stinging. Derek doesn't check the damage on the rest of his body. He doesn't want to. He  _can't_. He feels like ignoring reality as long as he possibly can. 

Stiles doesn’t fight back when Derek helps him into his clothes and into his bed. In a way Derek had thought Stiles would somehow retaliate, flinch away from his touches and his soft words. He’s probably far too out of it to care at this point. Whatever happened between the two of them, it’s left completely ignored. It’s weird having it back. For a while it feels like nothing had happened after that night at Boyd’s. It feels like they’re still stuck in that technicolor fairytale. Just minus the technicolor and the fairy and the tale. So, yeah. It doesn’t feel like much. But then again, it’s something. 

Stiles’ hooded eyes are strained against Derek’s. They look almost black from where he’s standing. Imminent, black nothings. 

"Do you need anything? Water or -“

Stiles shakes his head, a languid motion that seems to take forever. A limp hand is peeking out of the blankets, curling itself into the hem of Derek’s sweater. 

A light tug. Derek doesn’t move. Another tug.

Stiles is looking at him, and it’s almost pleading, almost desperate. Derek’s pretty sure he has the exact same expression reflecting in his own eyes. It takes another tiny tug before Derek gingerly slips under the covers and lets the bodily heat of Stiles welcome him with its soft grasps. It’s familiar, the warmth and the slightly itchy patchwork blanket. 

Derek doesn’t really know what do with his body. He’s completely frigid next to Stiles. He doesn’t know if the boundaries still count, if Stiles is still keeping that wall ten feet tall and indestructible. But then Stiles hand snakes its way into Derek’s palm and Derek holds on tight. It stays silent. It’s uncomfortable and thick with so many unverbalized thoughts that Derek doesn’t even know where he’d start if his mouth were capable of actual movement. But the thoughts are too heavy, too angry and confused. Derek is afraid that if he says something wrong it’s going to happen again. The panic attack. Derek can still vividly feel the remainders of it sticking to his skin. He can still feel the fear and the distress and the terror. He doesn’t want Stiles to go through that again. He doesn’t want Stiles to go through  _any_  of this. If it were up to Derek, he’d kidnap Stiles to the ends of the earth and catapult them into some parallel universe utopia where they’d spend the rest of their days chasing rainbows and eating pink, sprinkled marshmallows and blueberries, because blueberries are happy things, and Derek likes blueberries. Tiny fruits that make his tongue blue make him happy. 

Greg probably punched every ounce of manliness right out of Derek's brain. 

Stiles clutches his fingers tighter. It’s almost painful. And then the grip loosens, heat hovering in the gaps between their skins. Stiles’ breathing eases and flattens. So does his pulse. Derek lightly brushes over the thick vein along his wrist. He feels the boy relax under his grasp. After an eternity of breathing, Derek finally opens his mouth. 

"Why?“ he whispers. It’s just a word he indecisively flings into the space between them. It’s there now, hovering above their heads. It’s not meant to be answered and yet Stiles does. 

"Because I like you. I like you so much that it scares me - so much that I don't think I could watch you leave. So I wanted to leave before you could. Apparently I fucking suck at leaving. I suck at a lot of things.“ 

The words are slow and a hint of a slur is clinging to the ends of the vowels. Derek hates himself for thinking Stiles just got tired of him. He's incredibly ashamed of being so angry at him. 

_I can’t watch you leave._

Derek doesn't want to think about all the other people in Stiles' life that have left him. Derek wonders what Stiles has already lost. It hurts wondering.

"I’m not going to leave you.“

The words sound so much more reassuring in 80’s rom - coms. Fucking 80’s rom - coms. 

"You know that’s not the truth,“ Stiles mumbles, his fingers folding into Derek’s, strangling the skin between them, smothering it with tight heat. Derek mirrors the touch, clasping Stiles’ hand as firm as he can. It’s back to being painful. It’s a nice pain, though. 

"I know. I’m sorry,“ Derek breathes. He shifts closer, the movement jolting a stab of pain through his back. Moving hurts.

Derek almost thinks Stiles is going to say “Stop apologizing for stuff that isn’t your fault“ like he always does but he doesn’t. 

"No. I’m sorry.“

Stiles moves even closer, curling himself against Derek’s side. Derek can feel his breath against the crook of his neck, waves of damp heat soothing his aching skin. 

"At least - at least promise me you’ll stay until tomorrow?“

Derek squeezes Stiles' hand as an answer, inching closer into his warmth, fighting away the agony of his bruised muscles. It's quiet again. Derek feels his mind slipping away from him. He feels it lift off into a space of nothing.    


"I'm a mess."

Stiles' words sluggishly seep into the blackness, accompanying him into his doze. 

_You're my mess._

Derek doesn't know if he's saying the words or thinking them. All he knows is that they're there. An answer to a silent, unasked question. 

_You're my mess._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter is going to take a while, because - LIFE! uuuugggghhhh.... but I'm working on it and hope it'll all turn out a little more satisfying than it currently is :D  
> So... god I don't know... (꒪⌓꒪) This fic was supposed to be something light and funny, but then my brain was all like "oh hey panic attack"! And bam! It's all angst and feels up in my head. I think it's the school stress, but hey at least Derek finally got his groove - or as close as awkward Derek can get to grooving. Also I just really wanted to make him beat something up. I have absolutely nothing against gingers, really, I'm so sorry if it sounds like I do. It's just I thought the fiery hair and all would do great with this guy and Derek doesn't like it. My apologies!  
> 


	11. Captain's Cadet & Kidnapping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW, IM SORRY! This was supposed to be 11 chapters, but the last chapter was getting waaaaayyy too long so I ended up splitting it in two.  
> Hope to get the rest of the last chapter done by friday, I promise! (maybe I'lll even finish it earlier if I drink enough coffee and make my brain do more stuff)

Derek has no idea what he’d expected on a Monday morning at 8:30 am. Except for being well aware of the fact that his mom is probably going to kill him for missing the first period, a fight had definitely not been a very welcoming surprise. 

The warm pressure of skin is resting against Derek’s right cheekbone. The stabbing pain of it is screaming him awake, violently tugging him out of his doze. He flinches. The pressure immediately disappears. He cracks his eyes open. Dark bourbon is dancing in his blurry vision. It takes Derek a while to remember he doesn’t have his glasses on. Stiles is leaning over his face, a slight crease between his eyebrows. Derek murmurs something incoherent. He doesn’t even think the sound was supposed to be a word, but he feels like saying something, forcing out any noise his body can push out of the tight constriction of his throat. Yesterday’s words flood into his somewhat numbed brain. It feels like a dream, an answer his subconscious had given himself in order to make reality a little more bearable like a matured version of an imaginary friend. Words that never happened. 

"Why the fuck did you do that?“ Stiles’ voice is hoarse, almost rusty. 

Derek doesn’t answer, and simply watches the way Stiles’ features fall into something cloudy and sad. He looks like a giant contradiction to the warmth of the room and the luminous sun peeking through the cracks of the curtains. They stare at each other for so long, it feels like another dream. A nightmare almost, too silent, too cold. 

"Because,“ Derek mumbles.

"Because what?“ 

Stiles eyes deepen a sadder shade of burnt copper when his fingers ghost over the aching side of his face. Derek does’t want to know how much the bruises have darkened. He’s not unfamiliar with them. Basketball is a brutal bitch. Derek thinks Greg is a little more savage basketball. The thought of fiery red hair makes a groan tumble across his lips. Even groaning hurts. Stiles’ fingers immediately flinch away, as if he’d thought it had been his fault. Derek shakes his head. 

"Because - _you,_ “ Derek presses out. Stiles is shaking his head in time with Derek, a synchronized movement. It feels like the world is moving a little too vicious. 

And then Derek says something that just slips out. It tumbles across his lips a little angrier than he’d wanted it to. Reality distorts his conversation skills in the worst ways possible.

"If you hadn’t been missing, it wouldn’t have happened.“ 

Stiles freezes. The sadness mixes with something red, something bitter. He scoffs. It’s a drawling sound, the alcohol in his blood still grasping onto parts of his brain. 

"Oh, I’m sorry! Obviously this is all my fault. Isn’t it always my fault? Because it’s definitely always my fault. Always, always - fucking always.“ The words start out snappy, but they languidly slip back into something heavy and sad, as if Stiles himself is convinced of his own words. 

Derek hates himself. He truly abhors his existence and his incapability of communicating like every other functioning human being of society, because you don’t say shit like that to people like Stiles. 

_Like Stiles._

What is _like Stiles?_

"No. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I really didn’t. I apologize - “

"Oh my _god_!“ Stiles groans. „Stop!“

"I just apologized, I -“

"You’re acting like I’m going to get another panic attack!“ Stiles practically yells, his arms sluggishly jumbling through the air. It’s as if his voice is the only thing that’s actually wide awake, the only seemingly sober thing. His words aren’t, though. Derek hopes his words aren’t. He hopes it’s just the leftover alcohol talking. 

It’s probably hopeless hoping. 

"Well, guess what! That’s not how it works. It can happen any place, any time without warning, and you didn’t treat me like a little kid when we fucked up Boyd’s kitchen now did you.“

And that stings even more than the jabbing ache in the sides of his ribs and the barbaric hate for stupid, fucking, ginger Greg. Stiles looks like he’s on the verge of something furious. He’s completely backed away from Derek, his body as far away from him as it could possibly be in the small space of the patchwork blankets. 

"Yeah, exactly. Just as I thought. Here we go again, Derek. Hit me with your silence man,“ Stiles mocks. It sounds like he’s spitting venom right into Derek’s face, and he feels his own anger clawing beneath his skin, fighting for a way out, but Derek won’t let it. 

"You’re still drunk.“ 

It’s more of a way to reassure himself, as if saying it out loud will make it true, because Derek needs it to be something true. 

Stiles laughs. It’s the first time Derek hates the sound of it.

"Yes. There we go. What else you got?“ 

The anger in his insides stops revolting and slowly retreats, until it's morphing into a tiny pulsating flame. Derek can barely feel it. 

"Come on, Derek!“ Stiles shouts, his hands scrunching against the comforter in bulging fists. 

There’s a gush of sadness leaking into Derek’s stomach, drowning the spark of fire in his gut. Derek wonders if this is what sorrow feels like. 

"You’re still drunk,“ Derek repeats, because those are the only words that he can find in the comatose brain of his. 

"Stop acting like you’re my mother! I can drink whenever and whatever the hell I want.“

"Stop doing this to yourself. Please, just stop!“

"Stop _caring_ Derek, because you’re messing with my head!“ 

Stiles' fingers curl into a patch of sheets, the pressure turning the skin into an unhealthy shade of bleach. And then it stops. The anger boiling across Stiles’ face recedes, the trembling of his shoulders disappears, the vice-tight grip against the sheets loosens. Derek blinks. 

There it is, the blank page that Derek fears more than anything else in the world. Stiles is simply swiped clean. There’s nothing in his face except for a kind of emptiness that makes Derek want to pull Stiles into his arms, clutch at him to make it all come back. 

"Don’t get yourself hurt like that because of me. Greg’s on the wrestling team. Jesus. I’m not worth it. Okay? You got that? Derek. I’m not worth it.“

The air between them stays completely silent for longer than Derek is capable of handling.

"Thanks for bringing me home. Just make sure you close the gate on your way out.“ 

And that’s it. That’s all Derek gets, before Stiles stumbles out of the sheets and into his bathroom.

_He’s still drunk. He’s still drunk. He’s still drunk._  

Derek lets the words turn into a repeated loop in his mind, a sad, little carousel that keeps on turning even though there’s nobody riding it. It's a bitter, lonely thing, completely and utterly _useless_. 

The loop of words feel _useless,_ because he knows part of Stiles had meant those words. Stiles wants Derek to stop caring, but Derek can’t stop caring. It’s not some thing he can just shut off. He imagines that this is what being a chain smoker must feel like. The smoke toxic, but addictive, until it turns into everything you want to breathe, until it’s all your lungs yearn for. Every day. Every hour. Every minute. Every second. 

Derek stares at Batman a little longer than he should. The guy’s all broody and intense, completely out of place in the rainbow patches of Stiles’ bedroom. Derek feels exactly like Batman. Completely out of place, lost and lonely. 

His hand closes around one of his ankles. He simply holds on tight. 

 

♦︎

 

_Understanding The Link Between Substance Abuse And Mental Health_

 

_Longterm Effects Of Cocaine Abuse_

 

_Panic Attack 101_

 

_How To Communicate With Someone Who Has An Addiction_

 

_21 Things Nobody Tells You About Being Depressed_

 

_The Effects Of Alcohol And Alcoholism Withdrawal_

 

_Addiction Treatment_

 

_The Top 10 Causes Of  Panic Attacks_

 

_Drugs, Addiction, Depression, Panic attacks, Drugs, Addiction, Depression, Panic Attacks - Stiles._

 

Derek smashes his head onto the mouse pad of his laptop. Even with his eyes closed he can still see the crystal images of terrifyingly real words and stock photos of people slumped over desks with bottles pooling around them, clutching at their hair with mockingly painful expressions. 

Fucking great. Derek feels almost ashamed for looking at those pages. He even opened the tabs in incognito mode. He opened them in freaking _porn mode,_ because he’s ashamed of the world finding out.

"Huuuuuh,“ Derek grumbles against his laptop. He stays motionless for a while, wallowing in confusion and _pain_ (his face still looks like a summary of _Fight Club_ ). Talia had completely doubted his very acceptable excuse of losing his capability of handling the balance of his bike, because gravity had decided to temporarily put their, already shaky, relationship on hold. Ted had patted him on the shoulder with an all knowing “Good job old chap.“ and Cora had told Derek to stop having wild animal sex with strangers, because apparently that’s literally the best she can come up with in the morning. Really. Cora can do so much better. It had been so terrible, even Talia had flinched before snapping a mother-protocoled “ _Cora!_ “.

And if looking like a survivor of a woodchopper accident hadn’t been enough, Derek had gotten his first C+. A fucking 77.  Derek doesn’t get 77. Derek doesn’t get anything under 90. Ever. Especially not in Econ. Fucking. Econ. 

And then there’s the part where Coach had put him on break from basket ball practice, due to the fact that he looks like a human wrecking ball. 

Derek lets another dying animal sound wretch through his throat. The worst part of all of this might be the fact that instead of tending to his injuries or studying for his next Econ test, he’s sitting in front of his laptop staring at stock photos of drug addicts. 

It’s all because of Stiles. Derek can’t even blame Stiles. He can’t even come up with any ounce of anger for him being at fault for his injuries or his failing - yes, 77 is _failing -_ in Econ. 

Because it’s not Stiles’ fault, even though he’s very well aware of the fact that Stiles does part take in a large amount of his decline on the mountain of life, he can’t even let himself think about it being true. He won’t. 

Derek wonders how deep, how stuck one must be to not care about anything else in the world but one person. That one person. The one person who knows how bad he is for Derek, and yet Derek doesn’t want to listen. Derek doesn’t want to care, because he can’t _not_ care. At this point, Derek’s pretty sure he’s past the knee-zone. He’s somewhere down there, sunk in to his jawline, struggling for air, fighting to stay afloat in the most half-assed attempts of trying to avert metaphorical suffocation. 

Maybe Derek doesn’t want to stay afloat. Maybe Derek just wants to let himself drown all the way down into bourbon oblivion. 

Derek prints out the pages. He can’t stare at a computer screen without his eyeballs leaking after half an hour. Also, he can’t stand the stupid stock photos. Addicts don’t look like that. Depressed people don’t look like that. It’s almost embarrassing how far those pictures are from reality, because Derek knows how the real kind of people look like. He knows what they do, what they say, how they laugh, how they cry, how they hate - how they push people away. 

On paper the words feel far more real than those stupid stock photos could’ve ever achieved. The words are more materialized, more _there_ and it’s far more terrifying. 

He folds the pages and squashes them into his duffel bag, hoping they’ll be less real once they’re stuffed between leftover Mars bar wrappers and lost sports socks. 

It doesn’t work of course. Derek really wants to simply drown. It’s so much easier than trying to stay and fight. Capitulating to the chaos is so much easier. 

The creak of his door is overtrumped by an even creakier voice. 

"Is it safe for the Captain?“

"All clear Captain,“ Derek murmurs. Grandpa Ted shuffles into the room, gingerly stepping from one spot to the other like he’s trying to walk across a mine field.

"You sure, Cadet?“

"Positive, Captain.“

Grandpa Ted loosens his posture. He gives Derek a crooked smile. Derek feels a little ridiculous. He hasn’t heard the "Cadet" thing since middle school. It’s what they used to do. Whenever Derek’s glower had been close to turning his eyebrows into a mono, Ted would ask for an “all clear“. His words had usually been followed up by thorough grandpa-pep-talks, consisting of silent Hale-brow communication, awkward hugs and motivational peanut butter sandwiches. 

Ted settles onto the edge of Derek’s bed, letting his back crash against the comforter. He swears he heard a few bones crack. 

"Something is still very, very wrong with the Elder Wand.“ 

Derek snorts. He hadn’t thought he’d be capable of appreciating any ounce of hilarity in his life at this point, but his grandfather has a knack for making him smile. 

"Bacon for your thoughts, Cadet?“

"You have bacon?“

"No.“

Derek leans back in his desk chair, watching the way the old man’s chest rises and falls in languid motions. The guy breathes so slow he could be sleeping. Derek actually believes that’s what the guy does most of the time, even while he’s walking, and talking, and offering Derek nonexistent bacon. 

"I’d still like to know what you’re thinking about. The girls are getting worried.“

"They’re always worried.“

"I do believe so. Yes.“ 

Ted spreads his arms against the sheets, letting his crumply fingers brush against the rumpled material like he’s making blanket-snow-angeles.  

"We all miss Stiles.“

Derek almost slips out of his chair. That right there had been the first time grandpa Ted had called Stiles by his real name. It’s odd hearing the old man say it. Polish Mystery had always been his go to, just like peanut butter and his yearly appreciation for Christmas sprays. 

"It’s not about Stiles.“

"You mean not _only_ about Stiles.“

Ted lifts his head from the comforter, quirking one of his bushy brows into his receding hairline. For a moment Derek had forgotten that his grandpa is an unofficial member of the X-Men. 

"Not only about Stiles,“ Derek repeats after him, a little lost in thought.

What _is_ he thinking about? 

A lot of things, too many things. And yet they all somehow revolve around a dark haired boy with moles, bourbon eyes, and a smile that makes Derek want to weep of joy like a Katelyn. 

But there’s something else there, something completely personal and truly Derek’s. It’s heavier than Stiles. It goes just a little deeper, an entity that’s part of the deep end of the swimming pool, something in the farthest corner of those 9.8 ft. 

"When I think about what I’m going to do after I graduate I - I mean it doesn’t feel certain. It’s like this jumble of crap up ahead. And I think - I think I don’t know if I want to do this anymore, but I can’t be thinking that, because it’s all already planned. I mean it’s ready. It’s all there, sort of waiting for me, I guess, and I don’t feel like it’s _right_ anymore.“

There’s a long pause. Derek has never said that out loud. The insecurity he's felt when thinking about the future has always been this thought that he’d shoved away, just like the thought of losing his father. The insecurity had been something deep, deep in that big ditch in the back of his head. 

He feels like he’s betraying himself by admitting it and finally acknowledging its existence. 

"Derek?“

"Hm?“

"Derek, you’re eighteen years old,“ his grandpa states, his eyes strained against the poster of the Golden Trio. "I’m 81 and even I don’t know if I have reached what I have wanted from life. I have never been sure. How could you be so sure? How could anyone be?“ 

Ted shifts, pressing himself back up until he’s back to sitting on the edge of the bed, his green eyes burning right through his. Derek knows the look his grandpa is giving him. It's the I’m-going-to-aid-your-restless-mind-with-a-long-ass-metaphor-that-will-leave-you-even-more-confused-than-you-had-been-originally-you're-very-fucking-welcome look. 

Derek sucks in a deep breath, mentally prepping his brain for Yoda Ted’s wisdom of intergalactic importance. 

"Do you remember that one time when the girls had been out of town to watch Wicked the musical?“

Derek nods. He remembers. 

"And do you remember how we’d been craving pancakes?“

Derek nods. He remembers. 

"We wanted to go check out that IHOP one town over,“ Derek mumbles. His grandpa nods. 

"Exactly and the girls had left the car, so we’d decided to drive there. I still remember how you’d wanted to turn on Sarah.“ 

Sarah the navigation system. Derek snorts. "Yeah.“

"And I didn’t want to, because -“

"You thought Sarah was a raging bitch with attention deficit disorder.“

"Yes that too, but also because Sarah didn’t give much room for _adventure,_ “ Ted continues, his eyes beaming a wild emerald, as if merely saying the word made him feel like Indiana Jones. "You see, if we’d followed Sarah, we would’ve gotten to IHOP in thirty minutes. Safe and secure and fast. But we didn’t. So, only with the name of the mall in mind, we set out to find it. For quite a long time might I add.“

"We were lost for five hours, grandpa.“

"Precisely. Five hours. And remember how we asked as many people as we could? If they knew where that darn mall was? They pointed in different directions and we were driving back and forth, and back and forth. We never made it to IHOP, but we made it somewhere far better. That carnival.“

Derek remembers the park. It had been a small patch of fairy lights and cheap rides, shining bright in a tiny concrete jungle. 

"And we had caramel popcorn, and cotton candy, and candy apples, and you remember we went on the ferris wheel twelve times, because we wanted to check if we could see the Eiffel Tower from up there?“ 

Derek actually laughs at that. Ted had bullshitted him into believing they could even see the Great Wall of China if he just looked hard enough, and it took Derek twelve times to figure out they couldn’t.

"Now wasn’t that so much better than boring pancakes at boring IHOP?“ the old man continues. 

The crooked smile is back. It complements the way his glasses are crooked and his nose is crooked, making everything look so crooked it’s almost symmetric. It's like those jokes that are so bad, they end up being good somehow. 

"If we’d listened to Sarah, we would’ve never stumbled across that carnival. We would’ve never figured out you can’t see the Eiffel Tower from a ferris wheel, and we would've never eaten the best cotton candy in the world.“ 

It’s silent. Derek can feel grandpa Ted practically trying to stare right through his eyes and into his head. Derek nods. For a very long time he just nods. 

"I think you should take someone here.“

Derek looks up, confused of what his grandpa is trying to tell him, but then he sees a keychain with a battered, tiny plush wolf, and he knows exactly what he’s trying to tell him. Ted leaves the key in the rumpled sheets, widening his crookedly crooked smile.

 

♦︎       

 

When Derek storms out of the Hale house on Friday evening, he has a plan. Well, it's sort of a plan. Honestly, it’s more of an impulsive idea. Emphasis on the _impulsive_. It might also have very little to do with an idea. It might just be this impulsive _something_ pulsating right under the left side of his chest. It’s all Derek can think about, all he can feel while he’s racing to school, his feet snapping back and forth so fast, the pedals of his bike are screeching in protest. His muscles are still aching. It’s been almost a week and Derek can still feel stupid, fucking, ginger Greg. 

And Stiles. Derek can still feel Stiles. The guy is literally everywhere. He's in his head, in his skin, in the freaking coffee he had this morning, because the color had reminded him so much of his eyes when the sun had rippled across the dark surface. He is everywhere. 

Derek believes in the probability of the thought of him having something to do with the impulsive _something_ hammering against his insides. Probably. Most probably. 

And Joshua. Maybe his father is somehow part of the _something_ as well. Maybe.

A honk rips him back onto the damp road ahead. Derek swivels to the side, letting a car race past him, pulling a wave of wind against his back. Derek pedals so fast his fingers start numbing in the intensity of the wind, practically freezing around the handle bars, raising the possibility of him having to pry them off of the plastic underneath his palms on by one.  

Why the heck didn’t he put on some gloves? 

Oh yeah. 

No thinking. 

He’ll risk the horror of his fingers falling off for now. He feels like risking a whole lot, because his brain is shut off and the universe is a horrible, horrible thing with a tendency to shit like there's no tomorrow. 

Derek pedals into the school parking lot, his legs thrashing towards the bike stands. He doesn’t even bother to lock it. He’ll hate himself for it later - much, much later. 

The familiar roar of a V8 engine grumbles straight into the space between his ribs, mixing with the hammering of that impulsive _something_ , turning the insides of his ribcage into a space of groaning vibrations. Derek doesn’t even let himself take a much needed breather. He bolts towards the Lambo, squeezing himself between the space of a truck and a busted Mini Cooper. He reaches out, numbed fingers extending towards the black paint job of the Lambo. It’s cold under his fingertips. He slams his palm against the rear. The car stops immediately. 

"Hey what the fu-“ Stiles’ voice booms out of the rolled down driver seat window, but chokes on the unfinished word when Derek stumbles around the front of the car, his feet not listening to his brain (a place that is currently lacking every ounce of common sense). 

" _Derek!_ What the hell man! Wha -“

Derek doesn’t let Stiles come to an end. He’s smacking his hands against the sides of the boy’s face, pulling him in, closer, closer, closer, swallowing the rest of the words into his mouth. Stiles goes completely slack underneath his lips. It’s a little harsh, a little too forceful, but it tastes sweet. Stiles tastes sweet like Coca Cola lollipops and mint candy. It reminds Derek of cough medicine. He missed this. He missed all of this for too long. 

His fingers are digging into cool flesh, brushing against damp, showered hair and little shivers reverberating against his skin. 

There’s honking and whistling and cat-calling. The noises are so loud they're forcing Derek out of his thoughtless haze. He doesn’t want to leave it. He wants to stay in the harsh heat and the smell of musky cologne and his own lemon grass laundry detergent. 

"Break it up, kids! You’re holding up the traffic.“ A gruff voice fights itself into the tight, little space between their faces. Derek doesn’t want to let go. 

Another honk. Another shout. A whistle. Derek has to let go. 

Stiles looks dazed. His eyes wide in shock or horror. Derek doesn’t know. He literally knows _nothing_. He’s the current embodiment of Jon Snow. This is terrible moment for GOT references. Terrible.

"Do you trust me, Stiles?“ 

And that is probably the stupidest thing Derek has ever asked. Maybe that had been even more stupid than that time in grade school when he'd asked Nora Cliffton if she had nipples. 

Stiles' eyes widen incredulously. It takes another pattern of cacophonous honks for him to grasp a hold of himself. His mouth starts moving silently before he manages to choke a word out. 

“Excuse me?! I don’t know! What are you - “

"Move over. I’m going to take you somewhere.“

And that sounded so much less horrifying in his head. 

"Wha - I - _What?!_ “

"No, no - I mean I want to show you something and - “ Derek grunts. "I didn’t really think this through.“

Stiles’ eyes go even wider. His eyebrows are almost being eaten by the damp hair flopped against his forehead. 

"You think?!“ 

"Hey! Seriously! If you don’t move that damn car now -“

"Shut the fuck up you intestinalturkeybaster!“ Stiles yells, his middle finger thrusting past Derek’s face and out of the car. 

"Are you gonna follow me home if I don’t let you in my car?“ Stiles asks, looking straight at Derek, and he’s so wonderfully close Derek wants to lean forward and kiss that scowl right off of his flushed face. 

"Probably.“ 

"Ugh! Fine! You do know that this is practically kidnapping right?!“  Stiles mutters under his breath before climbing into the passenger seat. Derek slides into car, trying to avoid the heated gazes of the whole crowd of kids scattered across the parking lot, because everybody's just trying to get home and Derek has decided to stupidly delay that from happening.

"Hey! I’m this close to moving that flashy piece of junk car -“

"What the fuck did you just call my car?!“

Stiles is already half dangling out of the passenger seat window. 

In Derek’s head this whole entire scenario had been so much more romantic. It definitely hadn’t included Stiles yelling the most ridiculous swears at the security guard. Derek feels incredibly sorry for the security guard.

"Oho! Yeah that’s right you freaking buttholecrackpot! Oh I’m sorry, you want me to take that back?! How about I stick that fucking shit up your -“

Derek grunts before manhandling Stiles back into the passenger seat and rolling the window back up. 

"Hey! Derek, what the hell?! Don’t even!“ Stiles viciously bares his teeth at him. If Derek weren’t slightly freaking out in the blank space he is currently calling his brain, he’d think it looks kind of adorable. Derek jams his foot onto the accelerator, letting the tires screech against the gravel below, overtrumping the protesting squawks coming from his passenger - or his victim of kidnap. 

Derek just turned into a criminal. He knew he had potential. Sort of. What is up with his head?

Derek races past the honking mass of cars crammed against the street, ignoring the incredulous look Ben the security guard is blaring towards the Lambo, his hands what-the-fucking the air. 

Stiles presses his middle fingers against the window, maliciously cackling like a freaking Bond villain. Derek should probably question his taste in men right about fucking now.

"Where the hell are we going?“ Stiles practically has to yell over the roar of the engine.

Derek doesn’t ease his foot off the accelerator. If anything, he might be slamming his foot into it even more. 

And then Derek starts laughing. It’s a sound that’s bubbling up in his gut, lighting up his insides in a colorful chaos. He doesn’t know if it’s the adrenaline high or the actual, legitimate hilarity of it all. Derek just kidnapped Stiles. And then Stiles starts laughing, and for moment Derek might be weighing the pros and cons of them being total, utter nut jobs. 

Maybe for a moment they’ve forgotten the past few days and the past few weeks. They're simply laughing, like they’ve just been through the most comical five minutes of their life. 

Derek can’t control the twitch of his body with all the laughter, and the way he’s currently fighting to keep his eyes on the road seems extremely dangerous. 

He pulls over, blips of the bizarre laughing fit still trembling out of their lungs. The car comes to a complete stop. And for a while, so does the world. 

It’s like someone flicked a switch. Everything is falling back into its ordinary place. It's a place where they shouldn’t be laughing together. It's a place where their relationship is one giant, colossal jumble of confusion and pain. 

Derek slumps back in his seat, too afraid of what’s going to come next. Stiles is looking at him with blown eyes and gawking mouth. For some reason Derek’s enjoying the way he’s finally managed to be so spontaneous that even Stiles Stilinski is at a loss for words. Spontaneous or incredibly, incredibly stupid. 

"Wow," Stiles breathes. "I think I might've hurt that guy's feeling." 

Derek can't help but let out a short snort, but he silences himself as fast as he can, choking the bubble of laughter back down, knotting it into the pits of his stomach. Something feels far too heavy to keep on laughing now, and if Stiles' next words aren't as shocking as Derek had expected them to be, no one can judge him for keeping his high hopes very, very, mariana-trench-low.

"Derek, I thought we were done with this. First you punch Greg and now you’re doing this?“ Stiles flails his arm between the two of them, and Derek would be lying if he said he hadn’t missed the sight of those wonderfully awkward limbs. 

"This is literally the opposite of what we agreed on!“

"What?“

"The whole you leaving me alone part.“ 

Derek stops breathing. The knot of twisted up laughter is being pulled painfully tight until it's nothing but a pulsating ache in his gut. Derek feels like throwing up. 

_Leaving me alone._

If Derek were actually still in his right mind, he’d take that as a declaration. He’d step out of the freaking car, apologize, walk back home, and wallow in self-loathing. But that’s not what Derek is about to do. 

Not this time. 

"I didn’t agree on anything!“ 

Stiles straightens in his seat and maybe, just maybe, Derek feels a little smug for making even Stiles look surprised by his own words. 

"You know you don’t want me to leave you alone and I’m not going to. Look just - just trust me. You need this. We both do. Just for two days. Okay? Give this two days and then you can try and make me leave as much as you want. Just can we please stop this whole mess for two days? Please?“

Derek keeps his eyes stitched against the black leather of the steering wheel, staring at the tiny creases of texture, a million little hills spreading across the material like a leather landscape. 

When he does finally pull himself together, snapping his head to the side, he notices how Stiles’ eyes have softened just the slightest fracture, as if a trickle of honey has washed into his irises. He nods. It’s barely a movement. 

"Two days,“ he whispers. 

"Two days,“ Derek repeats. 

 

♦︎

 

The rest of the car ride stays silent, as if someone unknowingly stuffed styrofoam into Derek’s ears, strangling every ounce of sound that dares travel past the puffy barrier. 

After stopping by Stiles’ to - wordlessly - pick up some extra clothes and driving by the grocery store to - wordlessly - stock up on food, they head over to the lake. 

Wordlessly. 

Derek can make out small fidgeting movements in his peripheral vision. Stiles is fiddling with the material of his lacrosse jersey, scrunching in it in his palms again and again. With each passing kilometer Derek loses faith in his actions. Maybe he’s even being a tad doubtful at this point. Maybe he's being _very_ doubtful.

But it’s too late to go back and Ted was right. They need to talk. They need this. They need to forget about the world for a while. With the universe splurging diarrhea all over the place, people have the right to do so, right?

The winding road leads down to the lake. For a while it’s just water to his left and Stiles to his right. The sun is spitting its last beam across the surface of blue before its warmth is suffocating behind the clouds. The world goes colorless for a while. Derek sort of likes it. He likes the way things don’t shine too bright or too savage. The colors look numbed and a little more gentle. Derek likes the world like this. It's a little less vivid, maybe even a little less real. 

The road splits into a small path slithering through the woods. The familiarity of it coaxes a tiny smile out of Derek. He could drive down this path blindfolded. 

_Light turn to the right, sharp left, steady straight, a little right, left, big curve to the right_ \- and there it is. 

Stiles shifts in his seat. His eyes are blinking a little sluggishly. He must’ve fallen asleep. 

"Where are we?“ he asks, his words lazy.  

"You’ll see.“ 

Derek steps out of the car, pacing towards the rusty gate ahead. The “Private Property“ sign looks like time itself has eaten away at the flaking metal. He fumbles for the key, his fingers brushing over the plush wolf nestled safely in the right side pocket of his jeans. 

He shoves the small key into the lock attached to the decaying chain. He hasn’t heard the rattling sound of the key flicking into place for a very long time. It’s a small sound, but it's so well-known. 

The gate creeks when he swings it to the side, opening up to an even smaller path consisting of two, long dry dirt patches twisting along a passage way of trees. He turns to face the windshield. Stiles looks confused. Derek looks incredibly content. 

"So, I’m guessing you’re still not telling me where we’re going? You’re not a psychopathic killer right? I’m not going to end up in a ditch with you wearing my teeth as a bracelet or something - right?“ 

Derek snorts, side-eying Stiles carefully from the driver seat. He shakes his head. 

"Nothing crazy. I promise,“ he reassures. He shoots the boy another small smile, pleased by the way Stiles softens in his seat. It’s just a bit, but enough to know he’s not actually thinking of the probability of Derek being an actual serial killer. Derek might be a little creepy though, he’s accepting the dark demeanor and the influence of his terrifying eyebrows. 

They set out into the labyrinth of trees, shreds of grey fighting their way through what little leafage is left above. It takes another five minutes of eternity until the car breaks out of the forest. Derek sighs. 

And there it is. All of it. 

The clearing is even larger than Derek had remembered, an endless field of grass leading down to the lake. The plain is engulfed by the arms of the forest, safe and sound, a little secret kept from the rest of the world. The grass is a mass of movement, swaying with the lashes of wind. It’s like watching ripples of water move across its surface. The only motionless thing in the ocean of grass is grandpa Ted’s trailer. It's like a tiny rectangular island, a safe haven in the turbulent sea of green. 

"Wow,“ Stiles breathes. Derek nods. He’s definitely missed this place. "And this is all yours?“

"The land belongs to Ted. The owner wanted to get rid of it back then, so he bought it for a few pennies - a long time ago. People have actually offered a lot for it since, but he told them to shove their money up their nostrils.“ 

Stiles snorts and it’s the first time Derek has heard it in a very long time. He likes Stiles’ nasal grunting. 

"That’s totally something your grandpa would say.“ 

Stiles sounds fond, his eyes looking a little distant from where Derek is sitting. 

"He doesn't want to sell it, because my grandma’s buried here,“ Derek mumbles under his breath. "Before my mother was born, they travelled all around the world with that thing and then they ended up in Beacon Hills. They lived here for a couple of years actually - before buying the house.“ 

Derek nudges his heads towards the forest. 

"Ted planted a tree over her ashes. So, you know. This place is special to him. We used to spend every summer here before we got too big to fit on the extra mattress.“

Stiles’ snort turns into a small, barely audible laugh. Derek watches Stiles nod before he turns his head and simply looks at him. There’s no more wall there. There's no gargantuan barrier of hellish altitude. All its blankness, its imperishableness is gone, and all that is left is inviting openness. Earnest and gentle.

_Two days_. 

Derek hopes it could stay like this just a little longer. Maybe even far too long. Maybe. Hopefully.

 

♦︎

 

The inside of the trailer is a box of memories. It’s stuffy and covered in a layer of dust, but it’s all still there. It's a long untouched piece of his past, a place filled with adventure stories of his grandparents and maybe a few of his own. 

The small fridge right across from the door is still covered in a horde of magnets and fading polaroid pictures, plastered memories ever aging on a yellowing surface. There’s a small picture hiding between an Eiffel Tower magnet and a picture of Ted’s feet. It’s Derek and Laura coloring themselves with crayons, childish, goofy grins beaming into the camera. 

Derek ducks his head stepping past the curtain of beads and into the treasure chest of memories. The patterned curtains are all pulled shut, letting the grey light seep through reds and yellows, dipping the trailer into a darkened glow. 

His eyes dart from left to right, scanning every inch of the place he’s missed for far too long. The constellation of indian pillows are still scattered across the mattress the exact same way Derek had left them so many months ago. “The Strain“ is still left half-read peeking out of the rumpled blankets. Even the kettle is still left on the small wooden table, one of the cushioned chairs resting against the wall in an awkward angle from when Derek had killed a spider with a newspaper from 1997. The newspaper is still there, splattered against the floor, hiding a giant insect corpse. 

"So, this is what a real life hippie trailer looks like. Damn,“ Stiles murmurs, settling onto the mattress, a cloud of dust puffing up around him. Stiles coughs, his hands batting around his face, warding off the dust. 

"Yup, hippie trailer,“ he giggles. Derek doesn’t know how he’s going to live without that sound. Stiles smiles at Derek once he’s de-scrunched his nose from a sequence of adorable sneezes that remind Derek of bunnies. Yes. Bunnies. 

"We should probably get this place cleaned up.“ Derek chuckles. 

The atmosphere is different in the trailer, different than it had been in the car. It's a little more lose, a little softer. And it’s nice. Derek likes having that feeling back, enjoys the carelessness and the warmth. 

"What’s in here?“ Stiles asks, his hands already tugging at a cabinet leaning against the wall next to the fridge.

"No, Stiles! Stop! That’s the -“ But before Derek can finish his sentence, the extra mattress comes flopping down. Derek lunges forward, his right forearm bracing against the dusty cushion of the collapsing mattress, his left arm swiveling around Stiles' torso. The sudden closeness startles him and before he can pressure his legs into staying upright, gravity starts dragging him down. They both land on the floor with a loud thud, the mattress almost slamming into them if Derek hadn’t braced his elbow against it. A moment of panicked silence. Stiles turns his head, amber eyes wide, mouth tugging into a grin and it’s so wonderful that Derek forgets the world for the blip of a heartbeat - that, and the mattress, which comes tumbling down on the both of them. Stiles lets out a squawk before letting another wave of giggles lose, the sound traveling through the thickness of the mattress above. 

"My hero,“ Stiles breathes under heaving laughter. Derek grunts. Man - grunts. The pressure of the mattress shifts when a pair of slender hands pushes it aside, lifting it away from their chests. Derek lets his head thud against the floor in an attempt to slam away the embarrassment.  

_Superfuckingsmooth, Hale._

Derek rolls his head to the side, his hair scrunching against the wood below his skull. Stiles is looking at him. He’s not laughing anymore, not smiling. His mouth is slack, pushing out breathes of air, letting the dampness of it travel across Derek’s face. He can still smell remnants of the odd mixture that reminds him of cough syrup. Stiles’ eyes are a dull glow in the fading light streaming past the curtains. Something about him looks so bare, almost defenseless like a little boy hiding behind the face of maturity. 

Fingers comes up to graze against Derek’s cheek. He lightly presses into the touch, basking in the familiarity of Stiles’ skin against his. Stiles’ eyes are roaming across his features. It makes _Derek_ feel bare and defenseless. But then all he can feel is the pressure of chapped lips soothingly pushing away the rest of his thoughts, until Derek can’t hear anything, can’t see anything, until it’s only Stiles. 

Because to Derek that’s all there is. That’s all there ever might be, and even though the thought scares him, _terrifies_ him, he can’t do anything about it. He has to simply take it the way it is. He isn’t given a choice and that’s alright. Derek’s alright with it, with Stiles. He’ll always be alright with Stiles, no matter how much the rest of the world doesn’t want it be alright.

 

♦︎

 

"I can’t believe you never told me you could cook.“

"You never asked.“

"Oh yeah dude, because that’s the first thing that pops into my head when I’m having a conversation with scary eyebrows.“  


"Eyebrows?“

"Because the first thing that does pop into my head is ’do you think you might have the potential of being a sociopathic serial killer?’.“ 

"Yes.“

"You are one scary human being and also, I’m staaaarving. Can you hurry up? Faster my slave!“

Stiles makes a whipping sound, miming a whiplash. Derek glares at him from the stove. Stiles shields his face behind his sketchbook, stretching out the tip of a pen, warding off Derek’s laser beam stare. 

"My teeth would look terrible on a bracelet! At least turn them into a tiara!“

Derek huffs, refraining himself from flinging a spoon full of smashed potatoes against Stiles’ face. 

The loftiness is finally back. The teasing and the laughing. It’s not fully back to how it used to be between them, but it’s there. That little piece of their bubble is there. And Derek takes whatever he can get, because each time he hears Stiles laugh, he can’t help but think about the sounds he makes when he’s crying, the sobbing and the choking blips of air. And each time Derek looks at his beaming eyes and his gentle smile, he can’t help but think about the way his face scrunches up when he’s hurt and talking himself into hating himself for all that he’s worth. 

_The happier he gets the harder he falls. You know what I mean?_

Derek knows what Scott meant. Derek knows. 

"Alright. Bring some blankets and help take out the lounge chairs from the back.“

"What? We’re not eating here?“

"Nope,“ Derek mumbles, turning back towards Stiles, forcing out his softest smile.

 

♦︎

 

The sun is starting to set, a glowing patch of grey fading behind the chiseled patten of mountain ranges. The shadows are growing, darkening by the second, swallowing more and more of the world until all that’s left is a shred of dusk. Stiles is stumbling towards the wooden boardwalk leading into the lake, his arms stacked with a lounge chair and a horde of blankets. From where Derek is standing Stiles is just a dark outline, the flashlight of his iPhone fighting away the shadows. The way Stiles stumbles and twitches like he can’t keep his balance no matter how much he tries, reminds Derek of the first time he saw him. Derek internally sighs at the thought. The first time Derek Hale had seen Stiles Stilinski, had also been the first time he’d accidentally snorted coffee up his nose. 

The guy had been this mass of energy, racing out of his Lambo, staggering over the lose tie of his left shoe, hair everywhere, cigarette clamped between his lips, shirt awkwardly stuffed into his pants. He'd been smiling. It had been the kind of smile that had made Derek feel like he was utterly and completely done for. There had been nothing cheeky about it, nothing provoking or brash. It had been a delicate smile, careful somehow. Stiles had been smiling at no one in particular. He’d been smiling at the sky, and then his mouth had started moving, as if he’d been saying something to it, whispering words into the emptiness up above. He'd been talking to something or _someone_. 

The shadow ahead starts frantically waving at Derek.

"Deedee! I’m hungry!“ 

Derek forces some movements into his stiff legs. 

Stiles is already nestled into a blanket when he arrives at the foot of the wooden boardwalk. The boy is buried into the plastic lounge chair, stretching out his hands in “gimme“ motions. Derek gives him his bowl of goulash with _smashed_ potatoes. He pushes the portable lantern between the two of them, letting the warm light leak over the edges of the boardwalk and across the surface of the lake, a tiny sun illuminating its little kingdom. 

Stiles hums. 

"Holy shit. This is so good,“ he muffles, wiggling his shoulders further into the lounge chair. 

"Why do people eat indoors?! Who the heck eats indoors these days, when you can eat outside, at a lake on, freaking lounge chairs! Indoors is stupid! This is freaking delightful!“ he practically yells, his voice traveling across the lake, echoing back, a million Stiles shouting at the two of them. 

"So you’ve never gone camping?“ Derek asks, pouring himself some weird Indian tea he’d found in one of the cupboards.

"No, I’m rich. Why would I go camping?  _Ouch!_ “ Stiles chuckles, rubbing at the spot where Derek had punched his bicep.

"I don’t know. Never had time I guess, but if this is what camping is all about then sign me up for life man.“

Derek almost spits out the bitter tang of the probably outdated tea, because he can’t possibly picture Stiles - _rich_ Stiles who bathes in giant porcelain bathtubs - in the wild outdoors. 

"Really?“

"Hm?“

"I can practically hear you silently doubting me from all the way over here. I could totally camp. I’m like the embodiment of the perfect woods man. I watch Man vs. Wild. I know how to skin a seal and wear its skin as a tanktop.“ Stiles raises his fork into the air. Derek doesn’t hold back the bubble of laughter exploding out of his mouth. 

"No seriously. It’s good for when you’re cold. I could survive longer in the wild than you! I’m five seasons in dude. Oh my god, stop laughing!“

"I’m imagining you skinning a seal.“

"Derek, how the hell is that funny?! That’s so disturbing!“

"I wasn’t the one who brought it up!“

"Yeah I know! Bear Grylls did and it was all like dead serious when he was skinning that shit and _wearing_ it. It was not funny. Now stop laughing. Jeez! Derek, seriously stop. Derek!“

Stiles starts laughing and it’s wonderful. It might be because they’re out here alone, without a care in the world, without judgment or pressure. Derek’s laughing, because out here it feels like he can do anything he wants. Out here he’s found that piece of freedom that he’s been yearning for. The epiphany fish hook is a slackened leftover ache in his chest. The only reason it might still hurt is because he knows this won’t last as long as he wants it to. 

Stiles is cackling next to him like a dying dolphin and Derek is channeling his own slaughtered spirit animal until all Derek can hear is choking gasps of air, and all he can see are crinkling bright eyes. 

Stiles lets out a stifled hick up before sighing and letting his eyes roam across the darkened scenery of shadows stretching out in front of them. 

"This is - you know -“ he breathes, slightly angling his head towards Derek. "Thanks.“ 

The gleam in Stiles’ eyes is wavering, slightly fading every time Derek blinks, and then all that’s left is a hint of sadness swimming in an ocean of bourbon, all by its lonesome. Derek reaches out his hand, tangling his cold fingers into Stiles’ cold fingers, a jumble of cold flesh hanging between them, connecting them. Derek squeezes. Stiles squeezes back. A blanket of silence settles upon the tiny kingdom of the portable lantern, its dim glow fighting back the greedy grasps of the dark. The only sound that seems to break the barriers is the trickling of the water below, lapping at the boardwalk, quiet waves clashing against wood. It’s a calming sound, so calming Derek thinks he could fall asleep right then and there. 

Stiles has his eyes strained to the sky. It’s a dark abyss up above. No stars, no moon, just a hint of a glow seeping through a shadowy veil. 

"It’s her birthday today,“ Stiles whispers. There’s this longing in his eyes that Derek has never seen before, heavy and somber.

It feels like someone just stabbed Derek in the chest, deflating his lungs, letting the gaping hole suck out every ounce of air his body has to offer. 

He kidnapped Stiles on his mother’s birthday. Derek is a terrible person.  

"Stiles, I -“

"Don’t say you’re sorry.“

"No, I mean - I didn’t know. If I’d known I wouldn’t have -“

"Dude, it’s fine! It’s not like I was going to eat chocolate ice cream and watch Netflix all night. This is actually the nicest thing I’ve ever done on her birthday. You know since she - left.“ Stiles chokes out the last word and it isn’t sad or bleak. It’s just slightly uncomfortable, a tiny defect. 

Stiles lets out a quiet chuckle, his eyes glinting under the void of darkness. 

"On either of our birthdays we’d go to the vintage cinema and watch three movies in a row, no matter how crappy  they were, and then we gave each other like five minutes to come up with the weirdest idea of what to do next. Some of them were completely shit, but we always did them. We went on a ghost hunt once and I think on my fifteenth birthday we party crashed a tea party.“ Stiles smiles. It’s a fragile little thing that's spread across the bottom of his face. It reminds Derek of those tiny smiles of porcelain dolls, the ones they sell at that creepy antique store on Elm street.

"We had fun, you know? The good kind. She was the kind of person who could make anything fun. She was good - until she got sick.“

Derek lightly rubs his thumb across Stiles’ frigid skin, warming it up just the slightest bit. Stiles’ eyes flick down to where they're connected before burning his eyes through his. There's no blank page, just fondness and careful heartache. 

"My father left when I was six. He moved to Iowa and now he’s married. He has a kid.“

"Ouch.“ Stiles scrunches up his face, gently squeezing Derek’s hand. Derek doesn’t want to really talk about it. He’d just said it to make Stiles feel less alone with his loss. 

"Yeah.“

"So, that’s the relative you visited?“

"Yeah.“

"How was it?“

"Terrible.“

"But you’re visiting him again right?“

"I don’t know. He invited us, but I don’t know. “

"I wouldn’t know, I really wouldn’t, but it sounds like he’s making an effort. You know, with you. I mean even if he left you, the fact that he wants to come back is - well, sort of important. I think you shouldn't let him leave again. At least he's trying, you know?“

It occurs to Derek that he isn’t the only one with a father who has abandoned him. He can still hear Stiles’ slurred words echo through the phone on Christmas eve. 

Stiles swings their hands back and forth, all the while giving Derek that little smile that doesn’t fully meet his eyes. And then Derek says something that his brain hadn’t even had enough time to process, a barely acknowledged thought ghosting along the walls of the back of his head, not be pursued, not to be recognized. 

"There’s someone in your life that’s making an effort, Stiles.“ 

Stiles' head turns to the side, half his face hidden behind the dark red material of his hoodie. Derek looks away. He knows he shouldn’t have brought it up, but it’s there now and it’s part of everything Derek had wanted to avoid for these two days. But then again, they have to talk about it eventually. Stiles needs to know things. Derek needs to know things. 

"Scott,“ Derek mumbles. It's an almost obscured sound, half of it swallowed right back into his mouth the second he’s - again - doubting his own decisions. Stiles shifts in his seat, the plastic of the lounge chair creating a crackling sound against the surface of the wood of the boardwalk. His pale skin is covered in the electric flare of the lantern, the light burning soft, little patterns across his cheek. 

"Derek, can we not -“

"I’m sorry - and I shouldn’t apologize.“ Derek flinches when Stiles cocks an eyebrow into his direction. For a painfully long moment Derek tries to just concentrate on the lapping sound of the waves of the lake, the water rippling against the soggy wood of the boardwalk. He’s about to awkwardly change the topic when Stiles open his mouth. 

"Because every time I see him I think of the past. I think of my mom and how we’d go to the playground together and how life was good. It was a time where I was actually happy. I can’t look at him without thinking of her. I can’t even look at Melissa without thinking of her. The fucked up part is that they're all I have left and I can't handle being around them.“ 

Stiles is back to staring into the sky, the pattern of light on his cheek shifting with the movement. 

"So.“ Derek drags out the word, as if to give himself some time to swallow back down the question waiting on the tip of his tongue. But of course Derek asks anyway. Apparently he does that now. He talks more than he should. "Is that why you started hanging out with - those other people?“

Derek bites his tongue. He’d almost said “Abercrombie Possy“ in the haste of his new found urge - and his inability to pursue it wisely. Talking is a whole entire new world he hasn’t quite understood yet. Then again, Stiles has probably not even understood it either. 

"Yeah, I guess," the boy mutters. "They were the farthest away from all _that_.“ He gestures towards the sky, his hand briefly ripping itself out of Derek’s, leaving his fingers cold and yearning for the lost contact. 

"Greg’s an asshole,“ Derek says. 

Stiles turns towards him, an incredulous look plastered onto his face. It almost looks a little amused. But then it washes off completely, a wave of pain settling into the vacant spot. Stiles retreats his hands into his lap, curling his fingers into each other. His eyes are staring at nothing in particular, simply strained against the distance, as if he’s looking into a memory or something far, far beyond that. 

"I know. They’re all assholes. I like them, because they don’t care. They don’t care about me.“ 

Derek’s fingers go numb, his hand still dangling over the armrest, swaying with the icy breaths of the wind. 

_But I care. I care so much._

It seems that Derek’s inexplicable urge to talk has retreated to a dull, discomforting want, but he doesn’t tell Stiles how much he cares. He doesn’t say he won’t leave him. 

It’s the easiest thing in the world. People say it all the time. 

_I care. I’m not leaving you. I love you._

_I love you._

Most of those time people simply say it because they _can_. It's a spur in the moment, a need to express something nibbling at their hearts, something that isn’t love, but something that they believe could turn into a tiny fraction close enough to it. To love.

And yet people still use the term _love_ , because to them it’s something easy. It’s something that rolls across their tongues and into their own reality. They don’t think about the rest, don’t think about the outcome, don’t think about their future. People use it without thought, creating so much unnecessary waste.

Saying you love someone is a silent promise. People promise it every day, because it’s too easy and too simple to be treated as something more than just a word. People give their hearts away every fucking day, because they need to please an aching part of themselves, screaming for affection and appreciation. It’s hasty, and dangerous, and in the end they promise something they can’t keep.  

When Derek says it, he wants to be sure he can keep that promise. But right now he isn’t sure of anything. He's not even sure of his own future. 

How can he keep that promise once he’s across the country at Harvard? How can he keep that promise if he has to concentrate on his own promise first? 

It's the promise of getting his own life in order and following his dream. 

His _dream_. 

Derek’s not sure if he can still call it a dream. Flaring pale hospital lights and bloodstained medical gloves don’t look like much of a dream to him anymore. There was a time where he’d wanted to help people, a time where he was this small boy putting a bandaid on Cora’s left knee after she'd fallen from her skateboard. That kid had wanted to keep on putting bandaids on wounds. He'd wanted to take care of all the injuries of others, because he couldn’t take care of his own. Derek still has those injuries. He's had for exactly twelve years.  

His future has turned from this bright, promising assurance into a gigantic, jumbled up mess. 

How can he promise Stiles all that if he can’t even promise himself anything? 


	12. Burnt Pancakes & Happy Endings

The warmth of the sheets are lulling Derek into a light drowse, his head spinning with the steady rotation of the earth.

Thoughts and thoughts and thoughts - and Stiles. 

For the past hour he’s been clutching at the front of Derek’s sweater, tugging him, constantly rattling Derek away from his trip into unconsciousness. His soft hair is tickling the tip of Derek’s chin, soft little murmurs ghosting over his clavicles. Derek drapes an arm over Stiles’ shoulders, hoping the soothing brush of his fingers will calm the boy down. Little shivers prickle under his touches. If anything, Stiles squirms even more. 

"Stiles,“ he grumbles. The boy presses his face further against Derek’s chest, his breath hot and damp and stuttering. "What’s wrong?“

Stiles’ head bobs from left to right, shaking, his hair brushing against Derek’s chin with the snapping movements. 

"Nothing," he whispers. Derek squeezes his shoulders tighter, causing another hot breath to flutter against the skin above his chest. He pushes himself back, hooking his hand beneath the boy’s jaw, slightly tilting his face towards him. Stiles’ features are darkened by the absence of moonlight, but his eyes are luminous, detached balls of light staring straight at him. It’s like a flashlight beaming through an ocean of whiskey. 

That feels like an eternity ago. The playground and the pain. The pain is still there, with Stiles right here in his arms. It had been stupid of him to think the pain would automatically stop the second he’d manage to hold onto Stiles. He knows now that that isn’t the way things work in the real world. 

"You can’t sleep," Derek mumbles, his thumb grazing the side of his cheek. It’s warm beneath his skin. Derek reaches over Stiles, flicking on one of the Moroccan lanterns. A vibrant kaleidoscope of colors is shedding its glow across the small bed. Stiles squints his eyes and burries his face further into Derek’s chest.

"Yeah, _now_ I definitely can’t sleep. Idiot.“ The grumble of his voice travels straight into Derek’s insides. It’s deep and achingly low. Derek nudges his shoulder slightly before scrambling out of the bed. Stiles whines at the loss, clutching at the hem of Derek’s sweater. 

"Come back,“ he muffles. His head is squashed into sheets and it almost looks like he’s trying to suffocate himself. "Also, turn the lights off.“ 

Derek untangles the boy’s fingers from his sweater.

"I’m just going to the fridge.“ 

Stiles’ head shoots up. His eyes are squinting, seemingly blinking away the uncomfortable burning of the light. 

"Why are you going to the fridge at what-the-fuck-o’clock?“ he mumbles, his voice still heady and gruff. 

"It’s three in the morning and I’m making pancakes.“

"Pancakes,“ Stiles repeats, staring at Derek as if he’s trying to figure out if he’s calling bullshit. Derek knows how much Stiles loves pancakes. He puts those floppy things onto rose-tangled pedestals up in that head of his.

Derek shoots him a sleepy grin. He watches the way Stiles’ features loosen into a content smile. "Where have you been all my life?“ he breathes into the sheets.  

"Studying.“ 

"Ha. Ha.  _Ha_.“

 

♦︎

 

It’s awfully normal, the way the two of them are sitting on slightly small chairs, munching on slightly burnt pancakes. Stiles had been apparently sketching Derek’s backside and Derek had wondered if people make their butts do stuff when they’re modeling their backsides and his boner-awakening thoughts had caused him to almost burn every single fucking pancake. 

He just appreciates the fact that Stiles apparently likes his pancakes burnt. Derek thinks it’s weird, but he appreciates it. 

The sound of guitar strings are crackling through the old radio resting behind a veil of dream catchers on a shelf above the bed. It’s a calming sound. All of it is calming. Especially having Stiles right in from of him, humming around a mouthful of burnt pancakes. Having him safe and sound is calming - or as safe and as sound as Stiles can get in this world.

The boy pulls the spit slick fork out of his mouth. Derek snaps his eyes away from that flushed mouth when Stiles stabs the fork into the air. 

"What?“ he asks, cocking his head to the side, his tousled hair slumping with the movement. Derek shakes his head, trying his best not to let his eyes wander back to the ruddy lips, all wet and nibbled on. Derek wonders what they must taste like now. Like pancakes and syrup. No more cough syrup.

"Nothing.“ He shakes his head a little too viciously. "Nothing.“ 

A small smile advances on those ruddy lips and before Derek has time to think about kissing that pancake crump sticking to the the bottom left corner of his mouth, Stiles is standing up and extending an arm. 

Derek looks at the pale palm, creases and cracks veined through the soft looking skin. 

"I love this song and we’re going to slow dance, because I feel that doing something as cliche as making pancakes at three in the morning calls for dancing.“ 

Stiles’ smile widens, a flash of white peeking through the tiny gap between his lips.

"This song is terrible,“ Derek retorts, flinching at the weird sound effects whooshing through “Every Morning“ by Sugar Ray. "Also. I can’t dance.“ 

"Yes, this song is fucking terrible, and I can't dance for shit either. So lets get this show on the road big guy.“ Stiles cackles, practically shoving his open hand right under Derek’s chin.

"Come on! Fulfill all my romantic, gay fantasies!“ he chirps, batting his doe eyes in a way that makes Derek’s insides melt and his brain soften. 

"Fine, but I’ll kill you if you tell Cora.“ 

Stiles’ innocent smile turns into a full fledged grin. Derek will dance. He will dance his freaking ass off if Stiles will smile at him like that. All fond and happy and for him. It’s all for him. 

"Fine, I'll leave out the part that the song was from Sugar Ray,“ Stiles adds impishly, earning himself a slight jab in the ribs. Another bubble of laughter is cut off when Derek surges out of his seat, grabbing Stiles with one hand and shoving their chests together with a strong pressure against the dip of Stiles’ back. The boy’s eyes are close, so close Derek can make out the flakes of bisque floating in the patterns of gold and auburn like a deep brown sunflower blooming around the swallowing darkness of his pupils. Thick winged lashes are engulfing those incredibly familiar Bambi eyes and for a split second Derek forgets where he is, what he’s doing, who he is, except for who he’s with. Stiles’ grin wavers, languidly melting into an expression of affection mirrored in the absence of a smile, but hinted with the slight curl of the corners of his mouth. It’s something so far away from a smile but so close to shared sentiment that Derek’s knees go wobbly. 

Stiles slides his hands on top of Derek’s shoulders, letting the tips of his thumb graze against the skin right above the juncture of his shoulders and neck. Derek shivers, reveling in the way Stiles’ eyes darken just the slightest bit, a slight waver of light carefully giving in to the shadows casted by his lids. Derek lets the palms of his hands slide across Stiles’ sides, pressing them into the slight dip right above his hips. Stiles’ breath hitches, a wave of damp heat traveling across Derek’s skin. He tugs the boy closer, just a fracture, wanting to hear the way his breath quickens, wanting to feel the heat curl itself against Derek’s front like a foreign life form. It's digging through the material of his sweater, morphing against his flesh, a welcoming invader. 

Stiles takes the first step. He kicks against the tips of Derek’s socks in a painful jab. A tiny smile quirks across Derek’s lips when he tries to follow Stiles’ pattern of steps, but he fails miserably. Their limbs just won't cooperate. Stiles lets a little chuckle of his own lose. 

"We’ll get the hang of it,“ he whispers. It’s a delicate sound like he’s afraid of breaking something - or _this_. Derek lets his fingers slightly dig into the lean flesh of his lower back, causing Stiles to press his hands farther against the bones of Derek’s shoulders. They sway back and forth to the terrible 90’s tunes crackling through the trailer, but the more their feet understand the patterns, the less terrible the music is. Probably because Derek isn’t really listening to it anymore. The only thing he can hear is Stiles’ breathing against the crook of his neck. His soft hair is resting against his right shoulder, hooked right beside his jaw. Their rhythm is slower than that of the music. Neither of them are probably listening. Derek likes the thought of it. Neither of them caring about anything else but holding on tight. Derek doesn’t know if he’d be capable of stopping at this point. He doesn’t want to think of having to let Stiles go. It’s like a bad habit, something lethal sneaking up on you without notice until it’s too late, until it turns into something that you can’t stop. And it’s good. It’s bad, but it’s too good to make it stop. Derek doesn’t want this to stop, doesn’t want Stiles to stop. 

He doesn’t ask himself when that had started happening. He’s stopped wondering about a lot of things. 

And when Stiles lifts his head from his shoulder, settles his forehead against his and kisses him, Derek knows he wants to let himself drown. It’s a feeling that’s clawing at his chest, slowly pulling him down, down, down until all Derek can see is black, a wonderful world of shadows. 

Derek lets his fingers dig deeper, lets his skin crack into the flesh and bone beneath that ridiculously colossal sweater. He pulls Stiles closer, knowing that he can’t get much closer than this, but he wants more, wants more contact, more friction. 

The kiss starts heating up, burnt pancakes and hot sugary syrup, a sweet inferno clashing into Derek’s mouth. Stiles’ tongue is slick and warm, coaxing low grumbles out of his chest, pulling them further out of the constriction of his throat and across his tongue. Stiles’ swallows every single sound, letting his toxic little whimpers. Sounds are colliding against each other like an ongoing car crash. Over and over and over again. Everything is forgotten. All Derek can feel is him. All Derek can smell, can taste - can love is him. 

Stiles is fisting the front of Derek’s sweater, pushing him against the fridge. He can feel the pointy edges of magnets digging into the flesh of his back, molding into his skin. Derek groans at the sudden pressure and when Stiles pushes himself up against Derek’s front, a wild and dangerous heat is tumbling down into regions far below. He can feel it. He can feel Stiles. A growing pressure, digging into his own, a friction far too good for Derek to think straight. Not that he is. His skull is housing a barren wasteland, better yet a black hole, sucking every ounce of common sense right out of his body. Stiles hand uncurls from his shoulder, pressing into the skin right above his collarbone before letting it slide lower, a lingering trail of heat leading down to his pajama pants. Cold knuckles graze against the fluff of his happy trail and when he feels fingers tugging against the waistband, Derek’s mind is hurled right back into reality. 

Offline -  _Online_.

Derek abruptly presses Stiles’ hips away, every ounce of recklessness screaming for him to slam him right back against his hips, because it needs, needs, needs. Stiles’ lips are flushed crimson from where Derek’s teeth had been. A look of confusion is spreading across his face like someone is switching Stiles back on. 

Offline -  _Online_.

"I - sorry,“ Stiles croaks and Derek has to try hard not to press him back against his lips. 

"No, I - it’s not that I don’t - you know. It’s just -“ Derek stammers, immediately untangling his fingers from where they’ve been wrapped into Stiles’ sweater. Stiles’ eyes follow the movement, his features morphing from confusion into something darker - far, far darker. 

"Are you a virgin?“ he breathes, an ounce of intrigue traveling along with the words. Derek shakes his head. Stiles slumps against the door, his fingers curling into his floppy hair. 

"I know that shouldn’t have come as a surprise,“ Stiles huffs. "Would’ve liked to be your first.“ 

He lifts his eyes, nothing but painful honesty mirroring against the shards of lantern lights. Stiles had been eager to turn all of them on, turning the trailer into the psychedelic inside of a disco ball. The colorful shreds of light are dancing across his features, flitting from one spot to the other, illuminating his nose, his left eye, the mole close to the right corner of his mouth. 

_I would’ve liked that too._  


Derek doesn’t say those words. He doesn’t think his mouth would be capable of making that sound right. He can’t help but think about the smell of Cheetos and the feeling of oily hair slipping through his fingers. 

Derek doesn’t want to think about summer camp.  

"It’s just I -“ Derek starts, cursing himself for sounding like someone crunched his vocal cords. 

"I didn’t think we’d be -“ Derek gestures between the two of them in the most awkward motion his arms are capable of.  "I just don’t have any - stuff, because I didn’t think you’d want to - yeah. I - yeah.“

Never has Derek stuttered. Derek doesn’t stutter, because Derek doesn’t talk. There’s a lot of weird shit going on in his life and he isn’t really sure if he should be embracing it. 

Stiles’ dark eyes go wide, his mouth a little more slack than usual.   

"Wait. You didn’t bring any condoms, because you thought I wouldn’t want to have sex?“ he almost shouts in exasperation. "Oh my god, you’re adorable. Derek! We’re two teenage dudes with healthy sex drives and we’re - you know - in the middle of nowhere, in a trailer with a  _bed_.“

Derek’s cheeks start blazing. He strains his eyes against his socks flexing around his shuffling feet. 

"I didn’t want us to have - “ 

_Oh. Great. Derek, you fantastic human being._

Stiles cocks an eyebrow. Derek frantically shakes his head as if that could hurl away any leftover humiliation. 

"No, I mean - I didn’t plan for us to - do it.“ 

"Holy shit,“ Stiles whispers. Derek looks up. It almost hurts by how freaking amused Stiles looks. "You have trouble saying  _sex!_ “

And now Stiles is laughing. Even better. 

"No, no, no, Derek! No, I’m sorry.“ Stiles is staggering forward, clasping Derek’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, gingerly tilting his face towards his. Stiles isn’t looking at him in a mocking way, his eyes are all bright and affectionate. Maybe a bit of mocking. "You have no idea how cute you are. Literally. You brought me all the way here, made me freaking pancakes at what-the-fuck-o’clock in the morning and you didn’t even want to get into my pants. Jeez!“ 

Stiles presses a dry kiss onto his mouth, a hint of a smile lingering across his lips, burning itself into Derek’s skin. 

"Say it.“

"What?“

"Say  _sex_.“ He giggles. Derek deepens the glower he hadn’t even noticed. Stiles is almost delighted by the way Derek probably looks like a raging serial killer. Stiles inches closer until their noses bump, his lips ghosting over his, tiny jolts of voltage cursing through the scraping contacts of his mouth against his. 

"Come on. Say it, Deedee,“ he breathes, his warm lips grazing against his own with each flex.  

And Derek thinks this is ridiculous. And the fact that he actually thinks this is ridiculous might even be a little more ridiculous. It’s just a word. He can say it.   
"Say it,“ Stiles urges, his front leaning in closer. He’s pressing against him, a hand curling into the waistband of his pajama pants. Derek’s breath hitches. 

"Sex.“ 

Derek feels his cheeks heating up with a familiar warmth when he hears another bubble of Stiles’ giggles vibrating against his mouth.

"God, you’re adorable,“ he whispers. "I have some stuff in my bag. They’ve been there ever since you started tutoring me. You have no idea how much I just wanted to ride you right there on my fucking carpet.“ 

Derek abruptly inches back, his head banging against the cupboard. "Ow.“ he rasps, his hand coming up to rub at the sore pain, causing Stiles to let lose another quiet chuckle. 

"Are you okay?“ he asks, as if he’s genuinely concerned for his well being. Right. 

"Don’t say stuff like that,“ he presses out of his clenched teeth. Stiles’ hand come froward, snaking itself against the back of Derek’s head, batting his fingers away, gingerly brushing over the aching spot. He actually does look genuinely concerned. Who would’ve guessed.

"Sorry,“ he says sheepishly, a hand coming forward to snatch Derek’ glasses away, flinging them onto the mattress. They clatter to the floor, and Derek sort of feels sorry for all the damage they’ve gone through the past few weeks. Stiles flinches. 

"Oops. Sorry,“ he whispers. 

Derek lets out a quiet laugh. 

"I’m getting new ones anyway.“

"I’m still really sorry.“ 

The teasing melts away until all that’s left is this affectionate boy smiling at Derek like there’s nobody else in the world who he’d rather be with. It’s an honest smile and Derek likes that smile. Stiles’ hand leaves the back of Derek’s head, reaching for one of his hands like a timid kitten, grasping his fingers, embracing them. All of this feels far too sappy for its own good, but Derek couldn’t care less, because he’s with Stiles. 

It’s quiet for a moment, both of them lost in goofy smiles and awful 90’s hits. Stiles comes closer, settling his forehead against his, his breath sticky sweet and hot and everything Derek ever wants to breathe. Stiles tilts his head forward, his lips brushing his, tiny lightnings cursing through the flesh. Derek tangles his fingers out of Stiles’ grip, moving his hands forward, letting his skin grate against the electric fuzz of the boy’s sweater. 

"Kiss me,“ Stiles breathes. Derek’s fingers grip into the flesh underneath, urging Stiles against him, their lips colliding, hot and vicious and intoxicating. He feels the strain of fingers against the sides of his neck, rubbing the skin until it’s covered in a mass of heavy tingles, prickling into his skin like a million needles. Stiles gyrates his hips against his, languid but hard, a pressured contact turning his pulse into a sledgehammer. A groan slips across his lips, Stiles licking into it, letting it clash against his own stifled moan. Fingers tug at the hair at the nape of his neck, the pain ripping him out of his haze. It’s long enough for him to make his feet move back towards the bed. Their legs are a jumble of tangled, awkward limbs, stumbling and knocking against each other. It takes a felt amount of forever for them to reach the squeaky mattress. They slump against the bed, barely managing to keep their foreheads from slamming against each other. 

Stiles laughs against his mouth, a hoarse, heated sound. Derek loves it. He can’t help but let out a small chuckle, enjoying the way their laughing concords into a ringing hum. Stiles is straddling his hips, smiling against his lips and it tastes even sweeter than the syrup or the slightly burnt pancakes. Derek can feel the hot pressure of his thighs against his sides, clipping him tight between him. No escape. Derek’s fingers travel lower, hesitating at the waistband of his low riding boxers, but then Stiles fingers are snatching his wrists, gliding his hands lower. The boy lets out a low moan when Derek lets his fingers dig into the round flesh. The pressure seems to be making the boy squirm above him, his hips grinding against his crotch in low circles until all Derek can see are fizzing stars behind his blackened eye lids. The tension stops. Derek almost lets a whine lose, the high pitched sound already accumulating at the back of his throat, but Stiles purses his lips against his in a pattern of small kisses before letting his mouth travel across the expanse of his skin. Across his chin, his jaw, the veins of his throat. Little flutters of butterfly wings stuttering against the dampness of him. The kisses stick to his skin, temporary tattoos scattering his flesh. Stiles’ lips wander to the notch between his clavicles, tonguing at the skin, carefully biting into the bone. Derek’s hands wander around the boy’s thigh, gripping them tight, but his grip starts to loosen when Stiles’ wiggles lower, lower, lower - and oh.  _Oh_.

Fuck.

Every single spank bank fantasy starts like this. Derek’s slightly panicking, b ecause Derek has had sex  _once_. It was terrible. Horrible actually. If Derek’s being completely honest, it was the most harrowing experience since his dad left, even after Derek had been to fucking Buffalo Center, in fucking Iowa. And that’s saying something. That’s saying a lot. A hell of a lot.

So how is Derek going to keep it together and not come the second that beautiful mouth is on his - uuugh.

Derek can’t even think of it without -  uuugh.

Stiles is hooking his fingers into the hem of Derek’s sweater pushing the material up, clawing at it with a frustrated growl. 

"Off, off,“ he huffs. Derek snaps out of his freak-out-session-trance, helping Stiles slip it over his arms and above his heads until its flung across the trailer, limply hanging from one of the Moroccan lanterns. Stiles is taking Derek apart with his stare, his dark eyes flitting across the expanse of his front, his ever twitching fingers scraping over his skin with the tip of his nails. It’s a shivering pain, the kind that stays for a heartbeat longer. 

"Fuck,“ Stiles breathes, his eyes constantly roaming until they stick against Derek’s. Derek lifts his hand, letting the pad of his thumb brush against the flush of his bottom lip. "Derek you’re -“ but Derek cuts him off, his body lifting itself upward until Stiles is nestled in his lap and they’re lips are latched against each other, exchanging damp breaths and unsaid words. Stiles inches back, a quiet smack from where their lips let each other go. The boy lifts his hips, stumbling out of Derek’s embrace, his limbs thrashing as he tries to keep his balance. Derek grips his bicep tightly before he smacks his face against one of the lower hanging lanterns. 

"Whoops,“ he murmurs out of breath, a low grumble clinging to the vowel. Derek smiles. They lack every sort of elegance at this point. Stiles giggles, slightly tapping the lantern away, causing the shards of light to dance across the walls of the trailer, whirling fragments of colors twirling along his slightly blurred vision. Stiles settles his feet onto the floor, an impish grin stuck to the bottom of his face when he hooks his fingers into the hollows of the back of Derek’s knees before abruptly pulling him towards him. Their crotches swiftly meet in a tiny jolt of electric tension. Derek hisses, his back falling against the mattress, his eyes strained against the boy falling onto his knees, until all that Derek can see is Stiles’ face peeking out of the V between his legs, his face half hidden behind the obvious tent threatening to burst out of his pants. Stiles lets his fingers wander towards his torso, the tips of them flicking across the two waistbands of his pants and boxers like he’s looking through vinyl disc covers. Derek lets a dangerously low growl claw its way out of his throat. Stiles looks up, his eyes slightly crinkling at the edges. 

"How the hell do you  _do_  that?“ he asks, scrunching up his nose and baring his teeth, imitating him with a cute little "grrr.“ Derek’s chest vibrates with a stifled laugh, because god this guy is all sorts of precious. Stiles’ features darken at Derek’s reaction. His laugh is cut short when the boy hooks his fingers into the elastics and pulls it all down. Derek can feel the material loosely pool around his ankles. He’s completely bare, the heat of his naked skin left to battle against the cold of the air on its own accord. A rush of goosebumps travels across the bone of his spine, rushing from the nape of his neck towards every region of his body.

"Shit, Derek,“ Stiles groans and it's a guttural sound. Derek doesn’t dare look down at himself, his eyes stapled to the ceiling of the trailer, watching the way the dreamcatchers whirl in tiny circles, the fading color of their feathers catching the splatters of lantern lights. He doesn’t want to look. He can’t. It’s a mixture of embarrassment and the acknowledgement of the fact that he’s  _completely fucking bare - assed naked_. 

He can feel it, though. Stiles’ hot air pooling around his groin, whirling across his shaft, a blanket of scorching fire warming up his sensitive skin. Cold, slim fingers gently warp around him, it’s a soft touch, barely there and yet Derek’s hips twitch, his mouth letting out a grumbling sound. 

"Look at me, Derek,“ he whispers, the words ghosting across the expanse of that painfully sensitive spot. Derek lightly angles his head upward, letting his eyes roll down. Stiles is nestled between his legs, one hand clutching at the back of his knee, the other molding around Derek’s painfully erect cock. 

Stiles is staring at nothing but him, his eyes drowning in shadowy orbits. His kitten pink tongue darts out between those flushed lips. Derek’s eyes immediately stay stuck to the fleeting movement. His tongue is slick, reflecting against the lights above. Stiles inches closer. Derek almost chokes when the width of his tongue is pressing against the underside of his shaft, licking upward until the wet muscle is tonguing at the sweltering tip. It’s a languid movement, hot and slick and causing Derek to fucking keen. 

"Fuck,“ Derek hisses at the wet pressure. A spark of something dangerous flickers across Stiles’ darkened marble eyes and before Derek has enough time to wonder, Stiles’ mouth stretches wider, his lips molding over Derek’s tip and surging down. Derek can’t help himself. His hips buck up, reveling in the unfamiliar wetness and the heat. The freaking  _heat_. Stiles lets out a stifled moan and Derek can feel it, can feel the way the sound travels across his tongue, vibrating against his own skin. Derek’s fingers curl into the blanket, the pressure of Stiles’ hot mouth coaxing terribly filthy sounds out of his throat. The boy’s lips flex around his flesh and it looks so perfect and wishes he could look at that forever, but then Stiles pulls off in one fiery, obscene motion, followed by even more fiery, obscene sounds and his tongue nudges against the ridge of his tip - and Derek pinches his eyes closed, going completely, fucking bananas. Stiles’ hot tongue flicks across the tip of him, a burst of hot, red tingles surging through his groin that turns into a full-fledged fire work once Stiles slips Derek back into the wet, warmth of his mouth. He curls his shaft farther into his throat, his lips almost grazing the dark wires of his pubic hair. Derek thinks he sees the stars and the moon and the Milky Way and the freaking Mars Rover. 

"Ngh -  _shit_.“ Derek breathes, his fingers folding into padded fists from where they’re suffocating the material of the blankets. Stiles groans against his cock, almost a sound of protest that travels from Derek’s groin to the tips of his ears. Slender fingers surge forward, wrapping themselves around Derek’s wrists, tugging him towards his head and Derek doesn’t even dare think twice before his fingers wrap into the soft strands of hair, something to hold onto, something almost reassuring. 

Derek slightly tugs at the strands and Stiles whimpers onto his skin, his mouth starting to move, bobbing at a languid pace. It feels like Derek is holding onto a Plasma globe, waves of electric heat mingling with the surface of his skin, spreading faster than a wildfire. 

Stiles slurps and whimpers and licks and Derek hates how good it is. He thinks about how many times he must’ve done it in order to make it this good. Or maybe this is terrible and Derek can’t tell the difference, because he’s never had a freaking blow job. 

But his brief thoughts of over analyzation and jealousy are thrown into the pits of hell once Stiles wraps a hand around him again, a pad of soft warmth moving in time with the lazy rhythm of his mouth. 

Derek lets heavy groans escape his lips. It’s almost feral the way they accumulate at the base of his throat and fight their way through his tightly clenched teeth. 

The grip in the boy’s hair tightens, his hips trying frantically to stay still, but they’re stuttering out of control, gyrating on their own accord, meeting the thrusts of Stiles’ hand and mouth, hand and mouth, hand and mouth - 

"Huh. Stop. I’m gonna - stop. Stop. Stiles,“ Derek begs, his voice almost so low it doesn’t even sound like himself. Stiles lets his tongue flick around the sides of his cock, causing Derek to frantically buck up against him, deepening the warmth, deepening the dampness. But Derek can’t anymore. He is not going to prematurely ejaculate, because this is Stiles and Derek doesn’t want to die of early-come-induced humiliation. The nails of his fingers scrape against the skull bobbing under his palms. It isn't enough to be painful, but it's enough to be a warning nuisance. Stiles eases the pressure off of him, his hand sliding up, following the trail of his slick mouth. The boy pulls off with a lewd pop and Derek thinks he might black out by the way a string of spit is connected from the tip of his angry, red shaft to that perfect, flushed, swollen mouth. Stiles’ eyes look a little vacant.

Jet black is staring straight at him. 

Derek slumps the back of his head against the comforter. Stiles plants a sloppy kiss onto the top of his cock, causing his hips to twitch. 

"You look so cute when you’re close.“ Stiles giggles from where he’s stumbling towards his backpack, an obvious tent obscuring the front of his boxers - and Derek wants. He wants so, so bad. 

"Hurry up.“ Derek practically whines and isn’t that just the face of calm and collected maturity. Stiles staggers back to the bed, a wicked grin etched into place. 

"Someone’s being impa -“ Stiles is cut off by his head banging against one of the lanterns. "Ah, fucking twatwaffle,“ he hisses, his hand smacking against the spot of impact, almost causing him to drop the lube and the condom if he hadn’t flailed after the objects slipping through his fingers.  

Derek’s about to have sex with this person. Derek is bathing in the afterglow of all the terrible decisions he’s made in life, because by some miracle they have ultimately led to this wonderful piece of hot, sweet bliss and Derek freaking loves terrible decisions. Absolutely loves them.

Stiles carefully slumps forward, falling onto the bed without hitting any other lanterns, or dreamcatchers or that weird decapitated baby doll head hanging right next to the radio. Derek doesn’t have enough blood in his brain to ask himself any obvious questions. 

Stiles wiggles his way up the bed, his hips shimmying out of his boxers. The Batman checkered material goes flying across half of the trailer, sticking its landing on the empty flower pot on the table.

"Strike!“ he shouts. Derek rolls his eyes, hooking his fingers into his hips and settling the boy onto his abdomen. Even without glasses, even slightly blurry and surreal, Stiles still looks so fascinatingly beautiful. The boy is sitting in his lap with nothing but a smile and that colossal sweater. It’s the one that slumps past one of his shoulder blades, the one that always slips back down his skin whenever he tries to pull it back up. Derek lets his fingers skim across the naked skin of his left shoulder, pale and smooth and freckled with tiny moles. His fingers travel further until his hand is resting against his jaw, the flesh of his thumb rubbing against the wet flush of his lips. Stiles opens that obscene mouth of his, his teeth catching his thumb, his tongue brushing against the skin. Derek groans at the touch, hooking his other hand into the back of the boy’s neck pulling him down towards him, down against his mouth, down against his tongue. Stiles doesn’t taste as sweet as he had before. It’s salty and - bitter and Derek knows he’s tasting his own pre come. The thought makes his hands dig further into Stiles’ neck, enjoying the way he can feel the bobbing movement of him swallowing and the aftershock of those flickering trembles. Stiles starts rocking forward, the flesh of his cock brushing against Derek’s abdomen. He can feel the member throbbing against his skin, hot and heavy and Derek knows he needs to touch it, to feel the ridges and veins. His hand loosens around Stiles’ neck slipping against the fuzzy material of his sweater until his fingers are brushing against pulsating heat. Stiles opens his mouth against his in a keening moan when Derek finally has his hand wrapped tightly around the boy’s shaft. He tugs upward, his fingers clumsy with the thought of them only having memorized Derek’s patterns of self pleasure. But the sounds Stiles is slipping into Derek’s mouth are every ounce of reassurance he needs. Hot and needy and wonderful. He’s a little shorter than Derek, but thicker and Derek likes it, likes the way he fills the cage of his fingers with warm throbs and rippled skin.

"Ahaa okay, okay I get it, but if you don’t stop right now we’re not going to get anywhere,“ Stiles mumbles against his lips, tiny electric currents connecting the flushed skins. Derek smiles against him, happy he’s not the only one losing his freaking mind.  Stiles inches back, his hands tapping against the sheets, knocking against the bottle of lube. It’s pink. There's a gigantic strawberry printed on the front and Derek barely holds back a snort, because of course Stiles Stilinski isn’t a man with a taste for  _ordinary_  lube. 

He sits up, straightening his back and Derek watches the way that perfect shoulder of his comes back into view. A slight tint of flush splurging across the pale surface. 

Stiles tugs at Derek’s fingers, dragging them under his chin. The cap is popped back with a flick of a thumb and Derek shivers at the way the slick liquid trickles down his fingers. It smells sweet and chemically candied. 

He pulls his hand forward, wanting to get a whiff of the weird strawberry stuff, but Stiles is so concentrated on squirting it across his fingers that he tugs back and before Derek has time to shame himself for wanting to get a better smell of freaking _strawberry lube_ his fingers recoil against Stiles’ face. The boy squawks, his head bashing against another lantern. 

"Shit. I’m so sorry! Are you - “

Stiles’ dazed look of shock morphs into something bright and incredibly amused. He starts cackling, his head falling back, the back of his skull nudging against the already swaying lantern. Those fucking lanterns. 

Derek can’t really help himself. They're two dudes in a trailer, with erect penises, laughing their butts off, because one of said dudes is an idiot and the other said dude has lube on his face. 

"Oh, wow,“ Stiles wheezes, his chest trembling with uncontrollable chuckles. "Be honest with me, Deedee, oh sugar sweet hon' bun of mine. Do I have something on my face?“ he asks, theatrically batting his lashes. 

Derek snorts, his hands coming forward to brush it off in clumsy attempts.

"Ew,“ the boy screeches, getting some of Derek’s lube fingers into his mouth. Stiles goes frigid, his eyes going so wide his lashes are folding against the dip of his eye sockets. "Duuuude. It actually tastes like freaking strawberries!“

Derek tugs his eyebrows together. 

"Stiles. I hate to break it to you, but the lube bottle literally has a strawberry on it,“ he deadpans. 

"Oh my! Why Derek, I hadn't noticed the neon fucking pink color of it either! What a terrible lube shopper I am! Well darn frazzlin dadgummit!" Stiles' words are drenched in sticky, sweet sarcasm. 

"No! I mean I thought it only smelled like strawberries. Who the hell needs lube that  _tastes_  like strawberries?“

"Who the hell needs lube that  _smells_  like strawberries in the first place?“

"Shut up! I’m a sparkly princess and I like lube that smells nice!“

Derek burbles out a laugh, flicking Stiles against his forehead, because this guy is most definitely a sparkly princess. Just, plus a whole bunch of assholishness and a splatter of bitter sarcasm. 

A true member of royal society. 

"No, seriously taste it!“ he urges, trying to shove Derek’s fingers into his face. 

"What? No!“ 

"Come on! It seriously tastes like strawberries!“ 

"Why would I want to taste lu -“ Derek’s words are abruptly cut short when Stiles splats his lips against his with a loud smack. Derek’s eyes go wide. 

"Holy shit.“

"Right?!“

Derek rolls the sugary tang around his tongue. "It kind of tastes a little more like watermelon, though. I don't really think they did that right.“ 

"Okay. Maybe a little. It’s like strawmelon -

"Waterberry."

_"Waterberry!“_ Stiles screeches before digging his fists into his sweater and pulling the material up to wipe the slick liquid waterberry off of his face. When the boy’s eyes peek out behind the knuckle-fisted material, they’re large and slightly crinkling at the edges. He tugs the rest of the sweater away revealing a tiny, shy smile and flushed, rosy cheeks, the colors mixing with the shards of light of the swaying lanterns.  

"Oh my god. We just ate lube and then we gave it a new name,“ Stiles breathes, flopping his head against Derek’s chest. "We’re probably the least sexiest people doing it right now,“ Stiles mumbles into the skin above Derek’s clavicle. 

"I beg to differ,“ Derek whispers. He wants smack himself with the lube bottle for letting himself say something so corny. 

Stiles lifts head. He’s smiling. 

Before Derek is letting himself get emotional about how beautiful it makes him look, his dry hand curls into Stiles’ sweater tugging it up and above and out of the way. Katelyn is throwing her "can’t even" at the walls of Derek’s blazing fireball-skull. Stiles is sitting on top of him, this gloriously naked expanse of lean muscle and pale skin and patterns of moles. Derek wants to memorize the constellations, wants to know if he could find the Big Dipper somewhere in the splattered chaos.The fingers of his dry hand ghost across the firm ridges of his abdomen, noticing the way Stiles’ eye lids flutter if he puts enough pressure on the spot right above of his belly button. His flesh is soft and tough at the same time and Derek loves the feel of it, the tense smoothness. 

Stiles is looking at him through heavy lids like window shutters pulled half closed, bourbon seeping into the shadows behind the seemingly vacant rooms. There’s no smile on his face anymore, no humorous quirk of his lips. All that Derek can see is this heavy, sinful expression. Stiles raises his hips. He grabs Derek’s lube slick fingers, dragging them past his throbbing member and pressing them against his crinkled pucker. Stiles’ breath hitches at the contact, his chest rising when Derek pushes his index finger into the scorching heat. Stiles is tight and taught around his skin, a welcoming feeling that is so different from his own. Stiles’ hand urges him to push his finger further, his knuckles grazing against the muscles until his palm is pressed tight against his skin. The pressure of the second finger makes Stiles gasp above him. 

"Jesus. Derek, if you don’t hurry the fuck up, I’ll do this myself!“ he breathes. In one gruff movement Derek has two of his fingers filling Stiles, the bones pressing against the tight walls. "Hah. Shit.“ 

Derek is lost in the heat for a heartbeat too long, reveling far too much in the fact that he’s getting Stiles this flustered, this frustrated. 

"Derek, start moving those god damned fingers! You  _ass - huuuuugh,_ “ Stiles groans and Derek loves it, loves the gruff sounds he can make him do, the way he can make his chest rise and fall far too fast to be considered normal. Derek starts thrusting his fingers into the narrow swelter, loving the way Stiles slams his palms against Derek’ chest like he's desperate for leverage, his hips meeting the snapping movements. Stiles looks kind of lovely like this. Derek doesn't think call things lovely, but Stiles is. Like this he's lovely, a ll flushed and hot and bothered, eyebrows furrowed, eye lids constantly fluttering, lips clamped between his teeth, not running his mouth just quietly content. Derek likes the way the colored particles of light look like tiny glimmering diamonds against his bright skin, constantly swaying and twirling and dancing each time he rolls his hips into Derek’s palm. There’s a barely noticeable finesse in his movements, tangled into the awkward twitches and the sudden bashing, but it’s there. Alluring and mesmerizing - the kind you only notice once you’ve been captured by it for far too long. It creeps on you, but you see it and once you do you can't _un - see_ the weird grace that looks oddly fascinating. 

Derek wants more of it, more of Stiles. He scissors his fingers in the tightness, enjoying the way Stiles’ teeth snap away from his lips to let a keening wail tumble into the trailer. The sound urges Derek for more, faster, harder -  _more_. A third finger joins and Stiles is stuttering out terribly filthy commands. 

" Fu - huh. Yeah, right there. Fucking faster, Derek. Faster. _Derek_.“ 

The way Stiles is saying his name is guttural and wild and Derek thinks he’s close to snapping in fucking two. The body above is meeting his fingers in frantic little jerks, practically pinning Derek’s hand to his thighs and riding his digits. 

Drawled words are washing into the adrenaline-high. It sounds like someone is trying to reach Derek through a giant wave of water. Stiles has his mouth open, his lips flexing with words Derek can’t make out. 

_"Derek!“_

Derek snaps out of it, flicking his head to the side and away from the sight in front of him. The sight of Stiles’ shaft lewdly slapping against his abdomen, while Derek’s fingers are smothering in his heat. 

"Condom!“ Stiles commands in a high pitched tone that kind of reminds Derek of when his mother yells for him to do the dishes. Derek doesn’t want to think about all the awkward boners the future holds for his Hale-house chores. 

"Oh, uh - yeah.“ Derek manages to choke out. His free hand pads across the expanse of the bed, frantically searching for that fucking condom. It's quite a difficult task with him not even being capable of keeping his eyes off of the boy straddled on top of him. 

"Derek!“

"Yeah - got it.“ Derek fumbles for the plastic package and he would be lying if bossy-Stiles-on-top isn’t making him achingly, agonizingly hard. Stiles practically rips the condom out of his hand, his fingers frantically trying to tear the plastic. 

And it’s taking a while. 

A very long while filled with Derek hating the universe - not something unfamiliar - for making either Stiles far too hazy to tear open a piece of plastic or making the condom a total cock-block. Derek actually likes the idea of Stiles being a little too out of it to even fulfill the simple task of opening a condom. Derek might actually be a little smug about it. A little too smug. 

" _Oh my god!_ You have got to be kidding me.“ Stiles is whining and laughing and Derek thinks it’s hilarious and adorable. 

"Here let me,“ he mumbles, his hand retreating from behind Stiles. The boy whimpers at the loss. So does Derek - internally. 

Derek fumbles at the package trying to rip it open. Stiles laughs even louder and it’s a little manic, but it’s the good kind of manic, the incredulous how-is-this-real-right-now manic. 

"I like how terrible we are together,“ he says, but it doesn’t sound like the uncountable times of him meaning it in the way that’s horrifying and painful. It’s fond and oddly appreciative. Derek kind of likes the way it sounds like two incompatible elements clashing against each other, over and over again but somehow gaining a silent connection, the acknowledgment that even though they shouldn’t work, they somehow do. And it’s chaotic and a complete mess, but it’s far too good for them to yearn for order and control. 

Derek likes thinking of them as their bad habits - of being each others bad habits. 

"Unusually compatible.“ Derek assures, sighing when the package finally decides to budge and help them out of their horny misery. Stiles lets another giggle lose, his face a little strained with leftover tension. He presses a sloppy kiss onto his lips. 

"You’re kind of freaking wonderful, Hale,“ he breathes against his mouth and when he straightens his posture, his fingers digging into the skin of Derek’s chest, the soft smile fades away, morphing into something feral, something carnal, something savagely alluring. Stiles lightly snatches the open condom packet out of his hand, his fingers easing the latex onto Derek’s sensitive skin. Derek shivers at the cool sensation, the way Stiles’ touches are completely and utterly concentrated on nothing but him - just like his eyes. They’re stapled against his. No waver, no falter - flicked into place.

And Derek remembers the first time he’d wanted to tell Stiles how he felt, the first time he’d wanted to take a leap of faith. It had been on a friday evening, that time he’d lied to Silvia about having a cold and it had been dark and Stiles had been a shadowy outline in the sparks of the lantern lights on Willow road and he’d had one of his cigarettes clamped between his lips and he’d been smiling and his eyes had reminded Derek of the rich bourbon whiskey grandpa Ted drinks on Sunday nights, sun-kissed bronze and golden amber in the glow of their cheap electric fire place. 

And right now it’s all Derek can see, deep, dark liquor, the kind that burns past your throat and scorches every ounce of your insides into a toxic wasteland. 

Derek can feel Stiles’ hand guiding him towards the tightness of that crinkled pucker. He trembles at the way the tip of his shaft is gliding into the slick heat, a seamless motion until Stiles sinks lower, lower, lower, his sweat - damp flesh meeting his thighs. Derek chokes out a deep groan. It’s another one of those sounds. The kind that is being ripped right out of the bottom of his stomach, crackling up his chest and wrecking through his throat. He can barely hear Stiles’ stifled moans over his own noise. The boy’s fingers are sliding up the sides of his arms before digging his blunt tips of his fingernails into the skin, clawing down the trail of flesh until his hands are wrapping around his wrists and pulling them towards his hips. Derek lets his own fingers sink into the nick of bone bulging out right under his torso. Derek feels the speed of his breath ratcheting up when Stiles starts adjusting, his hips rocking left and right and forward and back, pressing Derek further into his narrow walls. And Derek knows he isn’t going to last long, even the most unhealthy amounts of late night masturbation could’ve never prepared him for  _this_. 

Stiles takes in a deep breath, his bare chest expanding in a long, slow motion. He’s lifting his hips and Derek can feel the way he’s throbbing inside of Stiles’, the heat of the slick movement curling from his groin into his ears, and toes, a wanton prickle covering the expanse of his body. Stiles presses his palms into Derek’s chest and he’s looking at him and it’s wild and savage. He slams down. Derek swears he sees the rest of the universe through his blurred vision, every single planet in every single solar system out there. 

It’s a steady pace of gyrating hips and shifting pressure of up and down - and it’s driving Derek insane, because his hips don’t manage to do anything else but take the weight from above, to take the fireworks of tingles and sparks of hot glimmers burning up his flesh. 

Stiles is the embodiment of sexual torture. It's the way he teases Derek with shallow thrusts that make him want to viciously buck up into the intoxicating heat. But the boy presses him down with the strength of his palms, dominating every ounce of him. 

And even though Derek might absolutely hate it, he loves it. He loves the way Stiles is capable of driving him up the walls, making his bones ache for more sweet friction. 

"Stiles,“ he croaks, hating the way Stiles almost looks smug from where he’s thrusting down onto his body. "Please just - “ 

The smug look turns into a tiny smile. 

"Say it.“ Stiles breathes and it’s honeyed and husky but beautifully broken. Derek almost whines at the way the boy slams his hips forward, his cock vibrating with the movement, the tip of him patting against his own pale skin, smudges of white almost melting into his bright complexion. The sight of it makes Derek growl, low and throaty and wanting. Derek snaps out of his short-lived submission. His fingers twist into the tense muscle right above those sharp hipbones and with one hard movement he snaps his hips upward. Stiles’ head jerks back, a surface of moonlight skin stretching out above him, taut muscles falling into a strained V right above the bones of his clavicles.

"Huuuh.“ The boy breathes into the dreamcatchers dangling from the ceiling of the trailer. Derek doesn’t think twice before he’s pushing Stiles against his chest rolling him onto the comforter. He’s looming over Stiles, casting a dark shadow over the boy sprawled against the sheets. Derek can see specks of lights flickering around the down cast shadow, trying to fight their way through. Derek won’t let them. 

He inches closer, so close that their breaths mix into a hot mass of air, covering their skins, seeping into their bones.

" _You_  say it,“ Derek growls. Stiles goes still, his moving chest the only indication of him being alive. His eyes look even darker now that Derek himself is warding off any source of light. His own breath is heavy and fast and it reminds him of a turbulent sea. 

"Fuck me.“ 

Stiles doesn’t sound anything like a seventeen year old teenager. There’s nothing child-like to the way he says it. It’s dark and harsh, surging with the want of an adult. 

Derek’s hips collide against Stiles’, stuttering harsh movements, reckless and primal and wonderful. Derek doesn’t have control over his own tongue, no coherent words are stumbling across the slick muscle. Nothing but feverish breaths and grating groans. The heels of Stiles’ feet are digging into his back, his hips jerking with every single one of Derek’s movements. Stiles’ lips are so close. His hot breath is everything Derek is breathing. It's all the air he needs. The pressure of the boy’s tightness is dizzying, hurling his head into a never ending roundabout of friction and fever and whimpers. Those fucking little whimpers. 

"Nng. Fuck. Derek. Hah!“ Stiles keeps on babbling, small words and gasping exclamations rummaging through his mouth into Derek’s. Derek doesn’t know if Stiles knows what he’s saying. He’s probably not even thinking. Because Derek definitely isn’t. Their lips are crashing against each other, constantly flexing, constantly touching, constantly urging for more heat. Stiles’ mouth is slick against his, spit sticking to the ruddy flesh. Derek hopes Stiles can feel it, all the things he's wordlessly breathing against the other boy's skin. He hopes he understands what he means - that he cares. 

Stiles’ fingernails travel across the bones of his shoulder blades, pressing the memory of him into his skin, brand marking his flesh with painful scrapes of want and need. The nobs of his spine are aching under the vicious touches. But Derek can’t get enough, can’t get enough of Stiles bucking up against him, whining and wailing every time Derek slams against him as hard as the pressure of his hips will let him. 

"Shit, shit, shit - ugh  _shitfuck_!“

If Derek weren’t in a haze of freaking primitive, barbaric hunger he’d actually laugh at the crazy crap tumbling out of Stiles’ constantly open mouth. 

But then Stiles is clenching and releasing, and clenching and releasing around him and the sudden tightening constriction is making his eyesight go fuzzy red. A dull ache in his groin is starting to swelter with each vicious snap of his hips and he knows he won’t last much longer. 

Stiles has retreated his claws from Derek’s back and his hands are digging into the window sill above him - holding on tight, his body this limp puppet slamming against the back of the trailer again and again. Derek’s hands wander from the boy’s stuttering hips to his back, lifting him and shoving him up against the wall. Stiles’ fingers abandon the flaking wood of the window sill. His arms come froward, wrapping themselves around Derek’s neck, his hips settling into Derek’s lap, his thighs clipping Derek in place. He lets their foreheads slump together, their skin sticky and warm. Derek is snaking his hand into the tight space between him, grasping at Stiles’ shaft from where it’s slapping against their stomaches. It’s warm and slick with pre-come. Stiles shivers into the touch, gasps of sticky sweet air fogging up Derek’s hunger-hazed brain. The boy thrusts into his hand, into Derek’s skin and his pressure. He tugs at the veined flesh, the slick sounds of the contact filling the barely existent space between them. And when Derek lets his thumb press into the slit right at the sweltering tip, Stiles slams his lips against his. Hard and rough and painful. Stiles goes frigid, his shoulders quivering, the most wonderful sound spilling against Derek’s mouth and into his memory. Derek knows that sound, has heard it forever ago in Boyd’s kitchen, but it’s lower, gruffer and so raw it makes Derek’s bones tremble. Stiles is gasping for air, his fingers curling into his shoulder blades. 

"Derek,“ Stiles breathes and it’s the most beautifully demolished sound.

Derek’s hips give up underneath him. The prickling heat in his groin explodes into a chaos of thoughts of nothing colliding over and over again, his flesh surging with red voltage, his eyesight obscured by flashes of white and bourbon and fuzzy stars. 

"Fuck.“ Derek wheezes for air. His muscles go slack. Every ounce of tension and energy has been sucked right out of his freaking existence. It takes a million forevers for his world to put itself back together. The crashing sounds of turbulent seas morph back into the noise of their steady breathing. The 90’s tunes are wrecking through his ears again and they’re back to being terribly terrible. 

Stiles slumps against the wall, the back of his skull thudding against the window. A lazy, weak smile spreads across his flushed face and a few shreds of Moroccan lantern lights dance across the skin right above his eyebrows and if Derek is thinking about running away and marrying this guy in a cheap chapel in Vegas, no one can blame him for embracing the harsh afterglow of having  _him_  so wonderfully close. 

Derek doesn’t think he can just make all of this stop after two days. How can he just let this go? This wild, savage, wonderful thing they have. And yes, it's toxic and terrifying - but Derek doesn't care. Derek wants to give in to the free fall, to the drowning, to that leap of faith. 

Derek won’t let him leave. 

"Derek Hale, I take it back. I don't wish I was your first." Stiles starts, his voice out of breath and crushed. He leans closer, his breath making Derek's skin tingle even more. 

"I wish you were mine." _  
_

Stiles is a flushed, unhinged mess, lazily leaning against the back window of an old hippie trailer. He 's smiling, and he’s so, so beautiful. 

 

♦︎

 

The first thing Derek hears is the clashing of chirping, buzzing outside of the trailer, a clashing of noise rummaging through the air. The second thing Derek hears is the rustling of paper, the scrunching and folding of incredibly thin surfaces. The third thing Derek hears is his name, a barely audible sound. It’s dark and hoarse and dangerous. 

Derek’s eye lids flick open, his squinting stare meeting the gaze of the dream catchers. The colors are brighter now, almost too bright like their screaming at him with the beam of the morning light. He groans, his hands brushing over rumpled sheets. They’re a little damp beneath his fingers, but they’re cold. Far too cold. 

A jolt of memory is cursing through his brain, little fractions of heat and skin and toxic wanting. He can still feel it, humming beneath his flesh, a silent sound still cursing through his bones. He can still feel the residue of awkward laughter on those beautiful, beautiful smiles meant for nobody else but him.

His hands sluggishly move further, searching for him, but not finding him. The rustling of the paper becomes louder, more frantic, more agitated. His head whips up. The world starts turning, a chaos of colors blurring and colliding. There’s an obscured shadow dancing along his vision, the outline of a body ruffling through white rectangular surfaces. Derek rolls to the side, his hands skimming the floor next to the mattress. His fingers knock against the plastic rim of his glasses. Derek curls his fingers around them, lazily pushing them onto the bridge of his nose. 

The first thing Derek sees is red marks stretched across his arms, the remnants of nails still dug into his flesh, burn marks and memories. The second thing Derek sees is white in his peripheral vision, paper being rumpled around, like a tornado of alabaster. The third thing Derek sees is Stiles. His eyes are locked onto paper clasped between his fingers, a pained expression distorting his features. Derek’s brain is still too slow, still lethargic from sleep. All he can think about is how he doesn’t like that expression, how he wants to see a smile or a laugh or a gasp of ecstasy. Not this. Not something that looks like he’s two seconds away from falling apart. 

Reality comes crashing back down. Hard.

"Stiles?“ Derek croaks, the throaty hum causing Stiles to jerk his head upward. The pain is gone and something familiar is spreading across his face in a maroon blaze. Stiles is angry. 

"There was a trail of ants. It was leading into your bag, because - because you left your Mars bar trash in there. Look, just - what the fuck is this?“ he demands, his voice so much more hoarse than it usually is. The boy is holding up scrunched up paper. He’s standing right next to his duffel bag. It’s open, more white crumbling out of its opening. 

Fuck. Fuck.  _Fuck_. 

Derek is stupid. Derek is so, so stupid, because he forgot that those papers were even in there - or those fucking Mars bar wrappers. 

"I - I don’t -“ Derek starts, internally cursing at himself for being that big, fat, fucking idiot again. He’s horrible, terrible. 

Stiles’ eyes are flicking back to the paper in his hands, his pupils moving from left to right, left to right. He’s reading. Derek doesn’t want him to read. His body surges forward, the sudden movement almost pulling his already low riding pajama pants down, but Stiles retreats, his own body slipping to the back of the trailer like a stray dog not wanting to trust. 

"Is that why you brought me here?!“ 

Stiles is still not looking at Derek, his features slipping from agitation into sadness and back. A loop of emotion playing on and on and on. Derek reaches out for the paper before his brain can come up with something better to do, something more helpful. Stiles shies away, shoving the papers closer to his chest. 

"So, this -“ He lets his fingers ruffle through the stacks. "This is why you wanted to bring me here? So you could tell me how fucked up I am?!“ 

And now Stiles is looking at him - and it’s horrible. Derek has never seen Stiles so sad, so disappointed, so horrified. And Derek desperately wants the Stiles from yesterday back. The funny, loud, cute guy who thinks he can survive in the wild, because he watches Bear Grylls wear the skin of dead seals as tank tops. 

"Stiles, no I -“ 

"No! Oh my god.“ Stiles laughs. It’s a bitter sound, a blood curdling noise gushing out of his trembling lips. "I can’t believe you’d -  _Understanding The Link Between Substance Abuse And Mental Health?! How To Communicate With Someone Who Has An Addiction?!“_  he reads, his voice cracking more and more. Derek reaches forward, a last attempt at trying to grasp him, to hold him, to pull him close, but Stiles backs up even more, flinching away from him until he’s completely crammed against the back of the trailer, his rumpled hair skimming a lantern. 

"I know, Derek,“ he whispers. And there’s no anger in his words, no hatred, just naked pain. "This -“ Stiles lifts the papers into the air, flinging them in front of him like he’s waving a white truce flag. "This is what I am. I know! This is exactly why I need you to leave!“ he screeches, his voice barely a real noise, barely there, just squeaking, wheezing air. 

"I snort so much snow I can’t even smell properly, I get headaches, and my throat hurts, and I can’t fucking stop, because I feel like I’m worth something when I’m high, when I’m drunk, when I’m fucking wasted! My whole entire body hurts! It hurts so much, and I can’t sleep, and I’m tired every freaking day, and yesterday -“ Stiles chokes, he coughs. "Yesterday was the first time in a very, very, fucking long time that I’ve been turned on, because usually - I just I can’t enjoy it! I can’t enjoy anything anymore! Usually.  _Usually!_  But yesterday I forgot all that bullshit and for a while I felt like I was doing okay. But now I’m not. Of course I'm not! I’m lying to myself, because it’s still there.“ Stiles lifts a fist, scrunched up paper peeking out between his fingers. He slams the jumble of skin and paper against his chest. A hollow sound. "It’s still empty!“ 

His eyes are glazed over, dark and stormy, an apocalypse crashing down on the world of bourbon and amber. 

"That’s why I need you to leave, Derek. You have to stop trying.“ 

Derek feels like the whole entire earth is collapsing onto his shoulders, a bone - crunching weight pulling him down. 

"I can’t,“ Derek responds. It’s barely a response. It’s barely even a sound. 

Derek is already drowning. It’s not like he can just swim back up to the surface and lift himself out of this mess.

Stiles throws the papers aside, white confetti crunching against the floor. His hands are in his hair, twitching fingers digging into his scalp, scratching and grating. 

"I’m a big fucking mistake,“ he croaks. "When are you going to get that into your head? We tried it for a week and it scared the shit out of me, because you kept on looking at me like I meant something. And it was horrifying, because I don’t want to mean something to someone, because I don’t deserve it.“ 

Derek’s hands are going numb, giving in to the cold that seems to have suddenly infiltrated the trailer, an intruder slipping through the cracks, curling itself around his skin. 

_Feelings of helplessness, guilt, and worthlessness are distinct symptoms of depression._

It’s just the depression talking. Just the depression. Please. It needs to be the depression. 

It’s all just in his head. 

"You’re going to Harvard,“ Stiles starts in a rough tone. "You’re so smart and you're going places! I’m going to be - I don’t know.“ The boy tugs at his hair, a desperate movement, frantic and frenzied. "Probably high in a ditch burning the bible. I’m going nowhere and if we keep on doing this we’re just going to - it’s going to end up so much worse than fucked up and it’s all going to be  _my_  fault. This is not supposed to end good. We’re not good. We’re not good.“ 

Stiles repeats the last sentence as if he’s trying to drill it into the space between them, jackhammering the meaning into both of their skulls. Derek shakes his head until it’s this reckless rhythm of his head twitching. 

"Yes, we’re not,“ Derek whispers, hating the way Stiles nods his head at the words. "Yes, we’re not, but I don’t care. We can be terrible. Let’s be  _terrible_  together. What do we have to lose?“

The nodding stops and Stiles is staring at him. It reminds him of the way Laura had looked at him after she’d tried to explain why the sky was blue and Derek had nodded and smiled, but she knew her seven year old brother hadn’t understood one single word, probably hadn’t even been listening. 

"You,“ Stiles says and it’s a harsh word and it’s so certain it makes Derek flinch. "I could lose _you_ Derek and I know I will.“

Derek is starting to get pissed. He’s angry, even though he knows this isn’t Stiles, but it still hurts all the same, because Stiles believes his own words. He is so utterly convinced of himself - of being  _nothing_. 

"Look, maybe you will, maybe you won’t, but can we just not care for a while? Can we just stop thinking? Because I’m not thinking. I haven’t been doing a whole lot of thinking lately and that’s messed up and weird and different.“

Derek’s chest is heaving. He hasn’t felt this since the day he’d stood in Joshua’s front yard. He remembers the snow and the sad stare of his father. 

"And it’s you. It’s because of you. I want you. So please just -“ 

_Just what. What do you want Derek?_

Derek digs his fingernails into his palms, hoping the pressure will press out the words he needs to say. 

"Stay. Please just stay.“ 

The nodding of Stiles’ head is morphing into shaking. Up, down - left, right, left, right. His hair is swaying with the movement, tiny strands of brown whirling with his head at a delayed pace. 

"And what? Let you fix me? There’s nothing you can fix, Derek. I’m bad for you. Why don’t you get that?!“

A frustrated groan escapes Stiles’ lips, it’s feral and dark and causes Derek to twitch in his skin. 

"I’m not trying to fix you, Stiles.“

The boy scoffs. "Then what the fuck is all this crap?!“ Stiles points at the crumpled paper scattered across the wooden ground of the trailer, the color almost a blinding white against the dark contrast of the floor. 

"I’m trying to  _understand_  you.“ Derek is trying hard to keep his voice from down right yelling. "Because I give a damn, because I care so much more than I want to. I care. And I’m here. I’m here for you. I want to know how to care better, how to understand you.“ 

Derek tries to tone it down when he catches sight of Stiles’ eye lids fluttering and his muscles twitching at the sudden spur of anger. 

"You scared me so much when you had that panic attack, because I didn’t know what to do, because I didn’t understand.“

"Oh, but now you understand?!“ Stiles retaliates, his voice matching the level of loudness coming from Derek.

"I’m trying to! I’m trying, but you won’t let me!“ 

"Because I don’t want you to! I’m not worth understanding. I’m not worth it!“ Stiles shouts so loud the veins in his throat start to bulge. Derek takes a step towards him, an unwanted movement of his muscles that he can’t explain. He wants to hold Stiles close, wants to press him against his chest, wants him to stop, wants reality to stop. 

" _Shut up!_ “ Derek yells back. It’s a choked sound, horrible and not his voice. Stiles flinches at the noise. Derek wants to bite his tongue off. He hadn’t wanted to yell, hadn’t wanted to make Stiles look even more frightened.  _How To Communicate With Someone Who Has An Addiction_ had made the task seem so much easier than it actually is. It’s difficult and it’s terrifying and Derek doesn’t know what to say, or how to say it and if it’ll even come out the right way, the way he thinks it should. 

"You’re worth  _everything_.“ Derek tries to press out a little softer. It’s quiet for a while. It’s a deafening silence like someone is turning up static and white noise and mashing it up into this discordant catastrophe. An ear - shattering absence of noise. 

And then Stiles starts letting one of his ugly laughs lose and Derek wants to punch him, wants to hurl him out of his terrible reality. 

"You’re worth everything to me,“ Derek whispers, taking one final step until Stiles is only arms - length away. Just one stretch of Derek’s muscles and he could touch him, could press him closer. The laughing stops, the crying starts. Stiles is shaking his head again, the lanterns swaying with the movement each time his skull presses against it. 

"You’re making it so hard for me, Derek. Please stop making it so hard.“ 

It’s like he’s pushing the quiet words out with the release of air, a ghosting noise slipping across his bottom lip. "I hate you.“ he whispers, his eyes attached to Derek’s like their stares are held together by invisible threads. Derek can’t even close his eyes. They’re burning, burning against the dryness - or maybe they’re burning because of a completely different reason. 

"Who am I kidding? Of course I can’t hate you, of course I can’t. I could never hate you. You’re even making it hard for me to fucking hate you.“ 

There’s a cold kind of heat blazing right under his neck, scorching hot, but prickling cool. It shivers down into his insides, burns him, freezes him. And it hurts. 

Derek reaches out, but Stiles ducks away from his touch, slipping past Derek, a familiar heat too fleeting for him to revel in. Stiles shuffles into his shoes. Derek hadn’t noticed that he’s already dressed, his bag already packed and slumped against the trailer door. Stiles stumbles across Derek’s duffel bag, his shoes shuffling against the stray paper splayed across the floor. 

He’s fumbling at the handle of the door, shoving it back and slipping into the cold. A gash of wind is slicing into the trailer, but Derek can’t feel it. 

Derek can’t feel anything. 

"Stiles! Wait -“

"Google maps.“ 

Derek knows he should’ve run after him, should’ve stumbled into the car and driven him home, but his body wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t work. It takes him an eternity to shuffle forward, to squeeze his things into his duffel bag, for him to slip into his sweater and his jacket and into his shoes and tumble out of the trailer. He stumbles into the car, cursing and cursing and cursing at himself and at the universe, but mostly at himself. He’s been shoving so much fault upon the cosmos when the fault had been too heavy for him to heave onto his own shoulders - because he’s been a coward and he's been far too afraid of accepting it. 

He drives towards the woods, stops the car, steps out, shouts Stiles’ name, searches for him in the maze of trees and scattered leaves. He gets back into the car, stops, steps out, shouts Stiles’ name, searches for him in the maze of trees and scattered leaves. And he does it again - and again and again.  He gets back into the car, drives and drives and searches and searches and shouts and shouts. 

And then Derek stops the car, slips his head against the wheel. Bangs it against the leather until his brain feels like a vortex of agony. 

There’s nothing else in his head. It’s painful and blank like the last eighteen years had never happened. It’s just a dark blob of nothing, absolute imminent nothing. 

He can’t see ahead, can’t even think of his future, because it’s not there anymore. No med school or doctorates, no promise of greatness or saving lives. Derek won’t save anyone, Derek can’t even save a seventeen year old kid with colossal sweaters and eyes that remind him of hard liquor. 

Derek drives to Stiles’ house. Stile is not there. Derek waits. Derek leaves. 

And on his walk back home Derek cries for the first time in twelve years. 

 

♦︎

 

"Hold it big guy!“ Laura’s insistent screeching is following him up the stairs, but Derek isn’t listening, isn’t even thinking, he’s just this blank, empty thing wobbling up the staircase, trying to slump against the floor. He remembers when he’d thought about wether being a floor would be easier than human existence, turns out being absolutely nothing is much, much easier. "Derek! What -“ 

Derek whips around. The look on his sister’s face morphs from anger into shock and something he’s never seen on her before. He doesn’t even know what it is, doesn’t even want to figure it out. 

"Derek, how was the - “ grandpa Ted skids into the hallway, going frigid when he catches the sight of his grandson. He pinches his eyes from where they’re halfway swallowed into deep set eye sockets, hiding behind crooked glasses. He takes his glasses off and settles them onto his nose the right way. His eyes go wide and before Derek can see the deep sadness washing into the emerald orbits, he storms up the rest of the stairs and locks himself into his room. 

Yes. He locks the door. 

Derek hasn’t locked the door to his bedroom since middle school, but right now he feels that he has the right to act like a shameless child. He’d already been sobbing like a shameless child, might as well just go with the flow of mentally aging backwards. Derek’s like an awkward Benjamin Button. And now Derek’s thinking about Brad Pitt. And now Derek’s thinking about Brad Pitt’s love interest. And now Derek’s thinking about Stiles and his stupid eyes, and his stupid smiles, and his stupid moles, and his stupid, stupid everything. 

Derek groan, it’s a guttural grunt and before he knows what the fuck he’s doing he’s remodeling his room - in the most manliest way possible. Books are being flung into the air, his chair is clattering against the floor, his sheets are almost being ripped apart, his posters are being shredded from the walls. Not even Harry and his stupid possy of magical friends is being shielded from Derek’s inexplicable manly wrath. There’s adrenaline and hate and pain and more, more hate. He’s not angry at the universe anymore. It’s not the fault of the universe. The hate is all for him. 

Derek’s starring a his Harvard folder. The folder full of application tips, and contact numbers, and admissions and aid papers. And Derek fucking hacks it to pieces. He rips the pieces to pieces, and splits those pieces into more pieces until his floor is powdered with shreds of ivy league confetti. 

_Fuck you Harvard._

Derek feels like his eyes are metaphorically burning middle fingers into the paper shreds whirling across his floor like a mini snow blizzard. He stomps across the confetti, until the throbbing pain in his feet becomes even more unbearable than the agony in his head.

_Fuck you._

Derek stabs the heels of his feet into the paper, electric jolts of pain ripping up his legs.

_Fuck everything._

Derek slumps across the floor, letting his noodle limbs clatter against the hard wood with a painful thud. 

_Fuck everything._

Derek bangs the back of his head against the floor like more pain, more hurting can make it all go away. It doesn’t overtrump the throbbing ache in his limbs, in his skull, in his mind. 

Derek lies there, lets his body practically sink into the cool floor until he feels like his bones are nothing but regurgitated mush, puddles of agony leaking into the cracks between the wood. 

People say letting out the chaos in your mind makes it all better, but the chaos in his mind is still there, not even going on a freaking killing spree could let it all out. The chaos is still trapped in the confinements of his skull. This horrible, agonizing mess splattering its venom into the creases of his brain. 

 

♦︎

 

He doesn’t know if he falls asleep, or blacks out, but the next thing he knows, his eyes crack open and the room is far darker than it had been. 

There’s clattering outside his door, soft whispers seeping through the gaps. Derek groans. His head feels like it’s a heartbeat away from exploding. Red, angry brain matter. There’s a loud thud followed by a hissed, "Oh my god! Grandpa, don’t eat that!“. "What? It’s only one month over its expiration date,“ a hoarse voice retorts. "Dad!“ another voice shouts.

Derek groans as he lifts his body up, his bones battling the movements, wanting to drop back onto to the floor with all their might. Derek’s head starts tumbling into every direction possible as he stalks towards his door. His body feels like someone tossed him into a washing machine full of needles. It’s painful. Moving is painful. 

His fingers fumble with the lock.   


"Shut up! He’s opening the door!“ 

Derek peeks out of the tiny gap between the door and the door frame. His family is camped outside of his room, half of the hallway scattered with pillows, a hoard of pizza boxes stacked in between them. 

"Tadaa!“ Cora flings her arms into the air. "We ordered dinner.“ 

Derek feels like shutting the door again and locking it as many times as it could possibly go. Even though he’s well aware that the lock only turns once, he’ll  _make_  it happen. 

But he also feels like turning into a little girl and squashing gross, saliva sticky kisses onto each of their cheeks. The last thought scares him to say the least. But he’s hungry and his mother looks like she’s a few seconds away from hugging him to death, so Derek lets a breath of air puff up his cheeks and steps out of his room. 

"Jeez. I like your room like that.“ Laura leans to the side to get a better look. "It's super caveman-ish.“ 

Derek actually manages to huff out a snort.

"We ordered pizza. Even that weirdo BBQ shit that you like so much.“ Cora gets pinched in the arm, Talia hissing a warning “ _Cora!_  Language!“ before turning towards Derek,. There's a fond, reassuring smile on her face. She shoves a whole entire pizza box into his lap once Derek has settled into one of the pillows. He tries to smile, hopes it doesn’t look too homicidal. Grandpa Ted is giving him a crooked grin over the rim of a jar of peanut butter.

"Ew! Gramps! Seriously. Don’t eat that. You’ll probably get diarrhea or something.“ 

"I can handle diarrhea. I have tamed diarrhea and it’s lose stools of hellish wrath, ginger crumb!“ he states proudly, raising the jar into the air. Laura’s eyes go wide, her hands jolting forward trying to snatch the jar out of his hands, but due to the fact that Ted’s a supernatural creature from a parallel universe, he darts away faster than lightning. He sticks a spoon full into his mouth. He grins. 

The weirdo. 

Nobody talks about Derek’s raging bitch tantrum, or about Stiles, or about anything important really. Derek silently eats his pizza letting the bizarre conversation - about how cow farts are truly a major cause of global warming - pull him away from reality for a while and it’s nice. 

It’s nice not thinking about the rest of reality, the world waiting outside of the foundation of their home, a commotion of chaos tumbling down bit by bit. It’s nice having this, this piece of warmth and security and gentle reassurance. It’s nice hearing the laughing and seeing the smiling. Those are things that make Derek feel like he can go on with his life like the rest of what is to come won’t be as horrible as his anxious mind makes everything out to be. If he has these people with him, these wonderful, familiar people, maybe the chaos won’t be as painful - maybe getting his heart broken again won't be as agonizing. 

And Derek appreciates them and the way they make everything better like when someone blows air on a child’s wound and even though the wound is still bleeding and throbbing, the pain gets less, because that someone is telling the child they’re blowing the ache away, making it vanish with nothing but a consoling promise. 

And for a while that pain is dulling, almost disappearing beneath the soft beam of the hallway lights and the even brighter smiles of his family. 

And for a while Derek is forgetting the boy that he loves far too much for his own good.

 

♦︎

 

It takes Derek an eternity to fall asleep, an eternity filled with fear and restless worrying. It’s back. The overthinking. Derek doesn’t know why he’d believed he could abandon that part of him, that part that overanalyzes, that part of him that’s anxious and troubled by every little thing out of place in his life. And right now there’s nothing that’s in place. His life looks like a catastrophe, the remnants of a turbulent hurricane splattered everywhere like color stains, an explosion of disarray. 

A pandemonium. His very own personal pandemonium. 

In the throes of something horrible, and restless he hears it. A clicking sound, scratching at the bits of his brain still holding on to reality. He tries to ignore it, tries to slip farther into oblivion, but the sounds won’t let him. They get louder and louder until Derek groans into the material of his pillow trying to make it smother him into a death sleep.

Tick - tick - tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick -  _tick, tick motherfucker._

"Uuugh.“ Derek jolts out of his half - assed doze. 

He walks towards the curtains. A shard of dim moonlight is peeking through a gap, luring Derek closer until his fingers are grazing against the dusty material. He disregards every thought about zombies or axe murderers and in one bolting motion he rips the curtains aside. His blurry vision makes out a shadowy movement hovering over the grass of their backyard. And then it stops moving. A smudge of motionless black, a completely still life form tattooed against the moonlit yard. Derek knows who it is, knows who’s standing on his backyard in the middle of the night. He doesn’t need his glasses to recognize the long limbs and chaotic hair. Derek fumbles to open the window. 

"I’ll be at the front door,“ he says as silent as possible. 

 

♦︎

 

Derek knows Stiles is waiting behind the door, knows he’s probably just two steps away. And yet Derek can’t make himself move. His eyes are strained against the dark oak door as if its the freaking Dalai Lama. An inanimate objects that holds the answers to every single mystery the cosmos beholds. And yet it doesn’t seem like it could answer why Stiles is standing in front of his house at one in the morning. It can’t answer why Derek can’t manage to make his muscles budge and just open the god damned door. 

He carefully lets his forehead slump against the cool wood, his right eye peeking through the peephole. Stiles’ head looks abnormally large through the fish - eye - like perspective like he’s a balloon attached to a tiny body. Stiles is a giddy mass of limbs, his body is moving up and down and up and down, as if he’s rocking from the balls of his feet to the tips of his toes. Derek knows how Stiles looks when he’s drunk, or high or just completely out of it - and Derek knows he’s part of all of the above. His eyes look puffy and dull and his hair looks like he’s been doing nothing but ruffle through it for the past few hours, a chaotic halo. 

Stiles’ eyes flick to the peephole and for a second Derek inches back, forgetting that Stiles can’t actually see him. 

_Why is he here? What does he want? Is he going to apologize? What the fuck would he apologize for Derek?_

His head is spinning, a million question demanding answers whirling in his head like someone is viciously mixing his brain with a blender. 

And then Stiles is biting his lips, shaking his head and stumbling away, away from the door, away from the house, away from Derek. 

Derek’s hand snaps forward, his fingers curling into the cool handle and he presses it down, forcefully pulling the door back. It swings open easily, with nothing but a high pitched creak. The frigid wind hits him like a cold, hard fist, punching a wave of ice through the material of his pajamas. 

Stiles abruptly turns around. He stays motionless in the walkway, nothing but the scarce light of the hallway illuminating his front, half of him eaten by the shadows. There’s something in his eyes, something painful and honest, but so gentle. And before Derek gets to open his mouth Stiles is sprinting towards him, his arms wrapping themselves around Derek’s neck, the force kicking every ounce of air right out of his lungs. Derek slumps back, his fingers digging into the material of Stiles’ jacket. He slips across one of the walls of the hallways until they're a jumble of limbs sprawled across the dusty carpet floor, leaning against the shoe cabinet. Stiles smells like smoke and tangy remnants of alcohol and sharper things that tingle his nose, but Derek doesn’t think about it. He simply relishes in the closeness that he has back, the skin and the warmth and the dips and curves he’s grown so familiar with. 

Stiles clutches at him tighter, his face squashed against the crook of Derek's neck, hot little bursts of air warming up his exposed skin. Derek hugs him tighter, pulls him into his lap, gets him as close to himself as he possibly could. The cold slipping through the crack in the door is harmless with Stiles’ warmth pressed against every inch of him. 

They don’t speak, don’t move, just clutch at one another, an almost desperate attempt at keeping each other as close as possible. 

Derek has never hugged Stiles. Not like this, not this long, not this tight - and he never wants to let him go, not now, not ever. He wants to keep Stiles this close until his muscles give up and his body can’t take the unnatural, scorching heat. 

And it’s right there. The words are right there, crawling their way up the back of his throat simply waiting for him to open his mouth. They feel warm against his tongue, pushing further against the back of his mouth. Derek buries his face against Stiles’ shoulder.

"I’m not leaving you, Stiles.“ 

Derek revels in the moment of saying it, of finally making a promise he wants to keep, a promise he  _can_  keep. 

And maybe one day he can promise far more. Maybe he can give Stiles the promise of that four letter word that makes him painfully roll his eyes every time he dares think about it and maybe he could manage to really, truly  _mean_ it when he says it out loud - when he says it to Stiles.

But for now this is all he can give him and he hopes it's enough.

Stiles lets another rugged breath stutter against Derek’s throat. 

"I know you won’t. I know,“ he whispers and past the drawling slur it sounds scared and horrified, but warm. Derek clutches at him tighter, probably pressing every ounce of air right out of the boy’s lungs, but he needs him like this. 

"That’s why I want to get better. For you. I want to get fixed.“ 

There’s a wet warmth soaking into the material of Derek’s sweater. Derek lets his fingers brush against the knobs of Stiles’ spine, catching the shivers and trembles, soothing every ounce of doubt and pain. 

"You weren’t broken to begin with.“  

 

♦︎

 

It’s one of the warmest days of the season, the leaves seem brighter than usual, the air a little thicker, a little sweeter. Stiles’ fingers are tangled into Derek’s, the slim knuckles nestled safe and sound in the pad of his palm. Derek remembers being a big brother bringing Cora to the hospital to meet with Thalia to get her her first vaccinations. But Stiles isn’t his little sister and the house in front of them isn’t the Beacon Hills Hospital. No ugly, green tiles or the lingering smell of antibacterial soap, the kind that stings in your nostrils. 

Derek looks to his side, stares at the way Stiles’ Adam’s apple bobs low and the way his hair seems a little more rumpled than usual. No guava - hair - gel, just soft, chaotic strands of whisky hair flopping onto his forehead. He looks tired, dark smudges of violet smeared underneath his eye sockets like modern teen warrior paint of the 21st century. Stiles looks like he’d fall asleep against the gravel of the pavement if Derek weren’t holding his hand tight. But he’s also scared. It’s the way the bones in his fingers are a constant shiver, tiny shudders shaking into Derek’s palm. Then again it’s either fear or the first signs of withdrawal. Derek has googled them, Derek has read the diagnosis and watched the terrifying youtube videos. It’s horrifying and Derek wishes Stiles wouldn’t have to got through all that torture in order for him to get better. Derek thinks it might even hurt him more than Stiles. 

"Are you ready?“ he asks, trying to keep his words soft and as gentle as he possibly could make them. Stiles shakes his head.

"Of course not,“ the boy responds. "Who the fuck prepares you for stuff like this?“

Derek squeezes his hand. Stiles squeezes back. 

They let the slightly warmer breeze play with their stray hairs, let the air soothe against the shells of their ears like they’re standing under a never-ending wave. 

" Scott said they’d both be there. Waiting,“ Stiles whispers and it’s a wheezing sound, barely real. "I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know.“ 

He keeps on shaking his head and Derek doesn’t want him to do that, to doubt. He lifts their connected hands to the boys cheek, presses their skins against his. Derek watches the way he leans into the touch, presses against their flesh and for a brief moment he closes his eyes. It almost looks like he’s sleeping, his unnaturally rapid breath the only thing giving away the false pretense. 

Derek steps closer until Stiles’ face is nothing but a blurred patch of dotted skin in his vision. Stiles’ eyes flutter open, a quick stutter of his eyelids. 

His eyes are bright amber orbits, swimming in the plane of blurred white skin.

"You can do this. I know you can. I’ll be right here. I’ll be right here in the car just a few steps away.“

Stiles nods, his forehead bumping against Derek’s with the movement. Derek gives him the biggest smile he has to offer. The boy lights up, his eyes brightening the slightest bit. 

"I can’t believe I’m doing this,“ he croaks. 

"I can.“ Derek assures. "I can.“

"Derek?“

"Yeah?“

"I’m scared.“

"Me too.“

Stiles tugs him closer into a hug. Derek wraps his arms around him, hoping he can convey every ounce of affection through the simple pressure of his muscles against his. They stay tangled into each other for a long time, their bodies slightly swaying from side to side to a silent melody. 

Derek feels like this is the end, like this is the end of a part of his life and a start of something completely different. Once Stiles steps into home of the McCall’s, house number 43 on Jacob’s street, his whole entire life is going to be turned upside down and Derek’s is going to go topsy-turvy along for the ride. He knows the roller coaster is long from over, but he feels safer in it like he’s somehow gotten more secure in hanging on. And even though everything in his current future looks like a mixture of chaotic love stories and static-noise-nothing, he couldn’t feel more certain. He’s never been this sure about something in his life. Not even the promise of Harvard had felt like this. 

But Harvard is a part of the past. It's a big chunk of the many things he’s leaving behind. 

And maybe Derek’s something different, something new, something he knows he can be proud of. Maybe. 

Stiles is inching away, every ounce of Derek wanting for him to come back, but he’s watching the boy walk up the stairs towards the door. Stiles turns back right before his hand reaches for the doorbell. 

"Well,“ he rasps. "Here goes me trying to make things right for the first time in my life.“ 

Stiles fleetingly looks at Derek before rolling his eyes towards the sky. There’s a smile spread across his face, delicate and careful and Derek knows who it’s meant for. 

Derek hopes  _she_  knows. 

 

♦︎

 

"I’m pretty sure this isn’t the stupid _Ranch Rehab_ “ Stiles huffs from the back seat. Melissa turns her head to the back. 

"There are a couple of people who want to see you before you go Stiles. And the _Ranch Rehab_ isn’t stupid. The people there are great and I’ll be there every step of the way. It’s not going to be stupid.“ 

She smiles and it’s warm and fond like a gentle ray of sunshine. Derek can practically feel Stiles roll his eyes at the back of the passenger seat. 

"This is all up to you,“ she reassures, a hand coming forward, lightly resting against one of his twitching knees. Stiles takes a giant bubble of breath, his chest expanding, letting his body trap the air underneath his ribs. A moment of silence. The air huffs out of his mouth. And then he’s looking at Derek, a flicker of determination beaming in his bourbon eyes. He nods. At first it’s a tentative, almost careful movement, as if he isn’t sure if he really wants to let his body give them the “A-Okay“. 

"Fine. Yeah, okay. Just promise me there won’t be any  _Goodbye_  banners or something,“ he murmurs. 

"Dude, we promise there won’t be anything weird. It’ll be really quick okay?“ Scott is giving Stiles his most affectionate puppy dog smile and Derek has to refrain himself from surging forward and patting the guy on the head. Stiles continues with his nodding, his chin pressed against his chest, his eyes staring at his feet. 

Scott storms out of the car. Melissa gives him another assuring smile before following her son up the drive way. 

Derek turns in his seat, his eyes roaming the back of the car. Stiles is slightly slumped against the leather, his fingers trembling around his colossal sweater. 

"Hey,“ he whispers. Stiles looks up, a hesitant movement, as if it’s taking every ounce of his control to not stare back at his feet. 

The boy looks small. He’s this fragile human being curled into his tent of a sweater, all delicate and breakable. Derek reaches out a hand, Stiles grabs it, clasps it tight, suffocates the skin. It’s almost painful. But Derek can deal with this kind of pain. This kind of pain is okay. This kind of pain is worth it. 

"Are you ready?“ 

Stiles scoffs, but it doesn’t look as feral as he’d probably intended for it to be. 

"What do you think, dumb ass?“ It’s a hushed exclamation, soft and almost frightened. Stiles’ fingers start jiggling. Derek ruffles around his duffel bag, reaching for a small packet wrapped - horribly, because Derek can’t wrap presents for shit - in sappy, twinkling cartoon Christmas trees. 

"Here. It’s a little late, but I thought you needed cooler ones than the ones you already have.“ 

Stiles untangles their fingers briefly, reaching for the packet. He’s giving Derek an amused look, a hint of flush dotting his cheeks. And when he rips open the wrapping paper his features lighten up into something wonderful, something hopeful and heartfelt and Derek wants to give Stiles late Christmas presents every single day.

Stiles snorts, his fingers lifting the Avengers socks into the air. 

"I even bought an extra Batman pair. You have no idea how hard it was to find - “ His words are cut short when Stiles leans forward, his lips brushing away the rest of his sentence.

"These are great. Thank you. You’re a fucking wonderful dork. God, you're so, so wonderful,“ he breathes against his lips. Derek presses himself forward, his fingers brushing across the fine guava - gel - less strands of hair. Stiles leans into his touch, their lips colliding, feverous and easy. Derek wants to remember every quirk, every flex, every flutter of Stiles’ lips. The way they slot so surely against his, the way they manage to be so soft even when they’re chapped, the way they still feel like they’re moving and letting a million words spill past them even when they’re tight against his. He wishes he could stop time, savor every moment of Stiles’ fleeting touches, his breath and the pressure of his fingers against his shoulders. 

Stiles is smiling against his mouth. Derek doesn’t need to have his eyes open to know. 

 

   ♦︎

 

The kitchen is a giddy chaos of twitching bodies and heated discussions. Laura looks like she’s going to run two laps around the house and grandpa Ted is scrunching his nose at Scott, probably analyzing his not so symmetric jawline. Ted tends to stare at things a little too long when he’s anxious. 

The giddiness stops the second Stiles and Derek step onto the kitchen tiles. Stiles goes frigid next to him, his fingers motionless in his hand. Derek is about to switch his instincts into flight mode, lift Stiles across one of his shoulders and bolt right back out of the house. But Cora flings herself forward before Derek can make that catastrophe come true. Her arms wrap around Stiles’ neck in a seemingly bone - crushing embrace. It doesn’t really take long before the others start huddling closer, trying to hug Stiles once at a time. Even grandpa Ted clutches at Stiles’ hands giving him a manly, double hand shake and an even manlier pat on the shoulder blade. 

"This is so weird.“ Stiles manages to choke the words out from where he’s squished against Cora and Laura and grandpa Ted’s Juice-Jabber. Derek’s not even going to ask. 

Stiles' words are followed up with strained laughter and teary eyed looks of affection - and care. 

"Stiles. We just want you to know that we’re here for you. Always. Okay? We’ll be there for you when you’re over there and we’ll be there for you when you’re back,“ Laura says, a fond smile spread across the bottom of her face. It’s her big - sister smile, the kind that chases away the hazing thoughts of bullies and their insistent hunger for specifically your sandwiches, the kind that makes the pain of even the deepest paper cuts vanish. 

"We’re family.“ she whispers. Stiles head slumps against her shoulder and Derek knows how much that must mean. 

And he is. Stiles is part of this giant, semi dysfunctional, jumble of a family, these crackpots huddled around the tiny kitchen. Even the freaking juice - jabber is part of it. 

"Please don’t tell me you’re  _all_  going to come on visitors day,“ Stiles says. 

"Oh no, buddy! I already added every single one of us onto the visitors list.“ Melissa beams from where she’s leaning against Talia’s shoulder. 

Stiles lifts his head, his eyes meeting Derek’s. They’re bright, a warm, pleasant glow of hope. And then Stiles smiles at him and Derek swears it will always be the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. A gentle promise of something whimsical, a fascinating wilderness echoing in the slight flex of two crimson, flushed lips.

And the fear is fading just a tiny bit more, the fear of having a blank future, of not knowing what awaits him.  And maybe Ted was right.  Maybe not having a plan is alright, maybe not thinking for once is alright, maybe it’s going to end in disaster, or maybe it’s going to lead to an adventure he’d never thought could be possible for someone like him. 

Someone who has never dared to take a leap of faith into the unknown, a chance of losing himself in an enigma. 

Derek has always been someone who thought the worlds in books were more exciting than reality, because it was safer losing himself in the chaos of words. But then he met that one person who showed him what wonders lie beyond all the pages, beyond all the planning, beyond all the thinking. That one person who opened him to the possibilities of fear and hatred and savage beauty. 

That person has shown him a world far worse than the ones in his stacks of books, or the realms in his head. That person has shown him what a terrifying spectacle reality can be. And yet that person has shown him what fascinating treasures lurk behind the mess, what wonder lies in the chaos. 

Derek’s afraid of starting from scratch, of having to start from the beginning once again. 

But he’ll start from scratch with that person, with Stiles, because that’s what he wants. He’s not going to be a coward anymore. He’s not afraid of chasing after what he wants from life.

He’ll find the rest of that tiny bit of freedom, because half of it is already right there, nestled into those Single Malt Scotch Whiskey eyes and that beautiful smile that quirks the slightest bit more to the right than to the left. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THAT'S IT! That's all I have. So yup. Super sappy happy ending. Also - jeez, that sex scene turned out way longer than I wanted it to, but then it got all cute and weird and frustrating, and then there was lube eating (because.... my brain?) So there you go! Half a chapter of porny porn.
> 
> I know this fic turned into something far, far too much, but the more I wrote the more serious it got. I put a lot of research into this and a lot shreds of my own personal experiences (I used to have a friend like the Stiles in this fic)  
> Also, this was my first attempt at writing an actual story. I usually just write poems...which is why this probably has some weird metaphors in it that make it hard to read at times. This was also my first attempt at writing in English. I know it's currently in a horrible shape, but I have found a wonderful Beta, and this will be updated! (I only found out that Betas exist right after I posted all this, so I'm so sorry for all the mistakes you stumbled upon!)
> 
> So yeah. That's it! Peace out coco puffs! :)
> 
> ( 21. 12.15 - UPDATE: I sort of forgot the password to this account...and messed up my gazillion email addresses and their gazillion passwords...I'm a special kind of idiot...just recently I've been able to get back on here. Like, it's been a year since I posted this fic! I suck and I LOVE YOU ALL HOLY SHIT! Thank you so much for all of the super lovely comments! You're wonderful and fantastic and spectacular and - *lies down*)


End file.
